Baldur's Gate 1
by Baddie Deya
Summary: My own retelling of the classic story from Bioware. The story of one elven bhaalspawn from her narrowly averted sacrifice until... the ending of the story! Join Lysara Vantress and all her friends along the way!
1. Prologue

Prologue  
>Chaos Shall Be Sewn in Their Passage<p>Deep in the Marching Mountains, which acted as a border for the human nations of Tethyr and Amn, was hidden a great temple, dedicated to the God of Murder: Bhaal. At dusk, on what was to be the night of the first full moon of the first full year after the time of troubles ended, all of Bhaal's surviving followers – all of who had strayed and could be found in that time now adorned Myrkul's wall at the heart of the hells - were gathered for the ceremony that would lead to his rebirth.<p>

Most of the faithful, as well as several hundred women and children - at least one pair for every race known throughout the prime material - were packed into the temple's spacious courtyard. All were held in thrall by the beating of a magical drum, the herald of the ceremony which would soon start. Those under the dead god's compulsion were even blinking in unison, woman and child alike.

As the sun's last rays faded over the western horizon, a figure stepped up upon the dais of the upper level, overlooking the courtyard, drawing every eye not enchanted to that spot. The figure was masked, garbed head to foot in black robes, streaked with crimson red that shimmered and seemed to flow and shift like miniature rivers of real blood. Gloved hands raised up - one holding a wickedly curved and sharp silver dagger - spread wide and high overhead. When the Deathstalker spoke, it was with a voice that rang out across the courtyard, cold and merciless, void of all emotion except perhaps for zealous anticipation. Nothing at all visible or audible about the figure indicated to which race or even sex they belonged.

"Welcome, oh faithful of Bhaal," the cold voice intoned, "Tonight, our lord and master, the great Lord of Murder, shall be restored to us!"

The priests, priestesses, assassins and murderers all joined in a joyous cry so various that none of it was understandable to anyone, and so loud that the phrase 'wake the dead' may have been truly applicable. Certainly the oversized skeletal warders seemed stirred by the sound for a moment before they resumed their patrol of the walls. The thrall-held women and children did not so much as stir a finger.

"This night," continued the priest when the cheers had died down, some ten minutes later. "On this night I shall lead and perform the ceremony which Lord Bhaal himself entrusted me with. This night, the very blood of our Lord God will run free, the Children will fuel their Unholy Father's return. Let the first sacrifice be brought forth!"

Down came those arms, and the figure turned away from the audience, and took two dozen steps to the altar pavilion where the sacrifices were to take place. One by one, the women came up first one, then the other, of the two grand staircases leading from the courtyard to the altar, and placed their own child on the altar, unable to resist the magical compulsion Bhaal had left in them before he died. The High Deathstalker sneered behind the mask concealing their face in satisfaction over what was to come. Really, what mortal being could resist even the lowest of gods, let alone Bhaal?

With each child, a different prayer was said to the dead god, and then down plunged the dagger through the child's heart. There were no bodies to remove. For after only a few moments, the victim's body, even the blood which spilled in the basin, disintegrated into a mist of golden energy, which was absorbed by the altar.

So it was that dozens of children were sacrificed; some borne by thralls, and others by the willing priestesses of Bhaal. This continued well into the night, with the full moon rising high in a cloudless sky. As the moon reached its zenith, each of the priests and priestesses were beginning to kneel in communion as the now long-dead god's power began to stir.

Then the ceremony was interrupted. An arrow was fired over the wall, slaying the drummer. With the spell binding the thralls broken, absolute chaos erupted. The faithful, though skilled in dealing death, were vastly outnumbered by mothers who suddenly realized that they were leading their own sons and daughters to be slaughtered, and that they weren't likely to leave that dreadful place alive either. Those females of races capable of flight took wing, and were soon gone without a trace. A drow vanished into blood and shadow, carrying her daughter even as she slew three priests with their own weapons and a single invocation to Lolth. A demonic succubus, abandoning her tiefling spawn, opened a gate back to the hells, which killed, or at least severely burned, anyone within a pace of her in hellfire. Females of the vermin races scurried about, trying to escape with their young and only biting indiscriminately at ankles.

In the midst of all the chaos, the great gates, which had been sealed at the start of the ceremony, were dragged open. The remaining mothers stampeded out, trampling the already dead bodies of the assassins who had been guarding it. A young man, whose hair was nonetheless already gray, sprinted past the black-armored priests who were now fighting his companions, killing the civilian women who came too close, and trying generally to get out of their own temple alive.

On reaching the altar, he found a skull mask, a hooded black robe streaked with blood, and a wickedly curved silver dagger, laying on the ground, abandoned, as well as the body of only one of the thrall women, a red-headed human woman whose green eyes were forever locked on a place beyond mortal sight.

"GORION!" screamed a voice from the far side of the altar.

"Alianna, I-" the young man, Gorion, began. As he looked up, he saw a fine-featured elven woman, her child in a basket beside her. She had wavy chestnut hair that tumbled down her back, framing an elegant, short and narrow nose, sky-blue eyes, high cheekbones, and thin lips the color of blood.

"Why?" she cried, much to Gorion's confusion. "Why did you come?"

"Your letter said-" he began again.

"LETTER?" she shrieked, "I sent you no letter. When last we parted I-" this time it was she who was interrupted.

"Gorion!" called one of his companions. Even he couldn't tell which through the din. "Hurry! They're regrouping!"

"Come with me, Ali," Gorion said, holding out his hand, "We can live as a family; just you, me, and the child."

"My daughter will fuel my god's rebirth! Nothing can stop that!" she exclaimed, and lunged after the abandoned ritual knife. Gorion was closer, however, and reached it first. But just as he had risen with it, she, and the weight of all her armor, landed on the now-upright weapon, which pierced through her armor directly above her heart, as well as the flesh beneath it, as though it were so much butter. She collapsed on top of him, her life force already draining from her.

"Though not… by my hand… though not… this night… she will… fuel… his re…" Alianna sighed out these, her final words. Her beautiful eyes open forever as she joined her god in death. For what seemed like an eternity, Gorion knelt there, too stunned to move. His beloved Alianna's body was spilling blood all over the ground and his robes; until Gorion felt a hand on his shoulder.

"We can't stay any longer. They've rallied and are pushing us back," the voice said with a clipped rustic accent. Gorion looked up, startled, into a pair of blue eyes framed by long reddish-blonde hair. The woman's ears were pointed, but to a more subdued point than Alianna's, identifying her as a half-elf. As she pulled Gorion to his feet, he looked down at the face of his lover one last time, saying, "Goodbye, my love."

She was right, of course. Looking up, Gorion saw black-armored warriors coming up the staircases flanking the dais, and a lucky fireball from the gates annihilated the southern staircase, taking those murderers with it. He took up Alianna's daughter, who was strangely and completely silent – though one look at her told him she was indeed alive - from her basket, and sped toward the dais. Holding the little girl tightly to him, Gorion vaulted off of the dais, Nadina following right behind him.

Each of them landed atop a crossbowman who had been taking aim at one of their companions. One of their shots went wide, fired by accident when the unexpected weight landed on them. One ricocheted off of a wall and hit a third bowman in the neck. His shot, fired in a death spasm, buried itself in the ground. They tumbled, Gorion protecting the child the whole time. Then standing, they ran as fast as Gorion could keep pace. Joining their companions at the gate, the whole group engaged in a fighting retreat, taking special care to protect Gorion, and Winthrop, the only other one who had secured one of the children.

[-]

A massive trail led one way, likely the stampede of women and children taking flight from that den of horror, that even the most unskilled of trackers could have followed. And a trail of bodies – more Bhall's faithful than anyone else, led another. Gorion had ordered his companions to go in a different direction than the fleeing women, to force those fools still worshiping a dead god to split their forces up. No, not fools. He would never think of Alianna that way. The sun's rim peeked over the horizon as the companions finally stopped to rest, the pursuit shaken. Of the twenty-five them who had gone into the temple, nine stood grouped together.

"We are clear," the woods-wise Nadina proclaimed, her eyes closed as she listened to her druidic insights. They would tell her far more accurately who or what was nearby better than their eyes or ears ever could. "The nearest band of Bhaal's faithful is half a league away."

Gorion produced the letter which had led him and his… associates… to that unholy place, reading it once again, as carefully as he possibly could, though he knew already what he would find. It _was_ her handwriting, her diction and word choice, that warned him of Bhaal's imminent return, begging him to come and save her child, the 'precious baby girl' who had finally changed her heart away from that dark god's worship.

Doran, Nadina's suitor, crouched down next to Gorion as the scholar sat cradling Alianna's child; the child that should have, in his mind, been his own. A little girl, just as the letter claimed, and seemingly of pure elven blood, though of course the girl's true father was no elf, and never had been. "You have our condolences for Alianna… and we are all sorry that we could not save more of the Children. But… what do you plan to do now?"

"I will do exactly as I told Alianna I would do," he replied, balancing the toddler in one arm on one knee while re-reading the letter yet again with his free hand. "I will find some place quiet, some place free of excessive temptations… and raise this child as though she were mine."

"But where?" Riebald asked. "I mean, we did what we set out to do. Bhaal's return has been stopped, or at the very least postponed, and we plucked a couple of the Children out while we were at it. But where could you possibly go that is safe for… for their blood?"

"Blood only holds so much sway in a person, even tainted blood," Gorion countered defensively. "For now, I think it would be best if I kept my intended destination to myself. It is not that I do not trust all of you, for I do. But this girl can never be traced back to this temple."

"Here now," the heavyset but still muscular Winthrop chimed in, bearing the other toddler, this one seemingly pure human. "It's all well and good that you want to care for Alianna's child; in fact, I applaud you for it. But it will raise a few eyebrows, a full-blooded human claiming to be the father of a full-blooded elf."

"I know," Gorion murmured. "She is an orphan, both her parents dead. That much I know to be truth. And that much I shall say. If anyone asks, I will tell that her mother was a dear friend of mine, and that she wanted me to care for the girl."

"Close enough to the truth then," Winthrop said. "Perhaps you would care to give her a sister?"

"You won't take care of that one?" Gorion asked.

"Call her Imoen," the man told him. "And I've not done enough yet to be retiring and raising a family. Besides, the girl _is_ her sister. They should stay together. Call her the daughter of an old friend, as well. But one that means to come and claim her one day."

Winthrop looked down at Imoen, and a fond smile appeared on his face. "After all, that part's true too. I'll be along to raise lil' Im just as soon as I finish up some more business I've let lie for too long."

Nodding, Gorion accepted his second charge, a second ward, and slipped the scroll away. Winthrop was right. This lifestyle was not one for raising babes, especially children with such blood as theirs. And they _were_ sisters, though they must never be allowed to know it. "Very well, my friend. I will contact you by the usual channels when I find a safe haven."

"Gorion," Nadina said, laying a hand on his arm just before he left. "I saw what happened. I heard what she said. If she did not send the letter which brought us here… who did?"

"Her murderer," Gorion replied through a haze of tears.

[-]

On the valley floor across Gorion and his associates, a milling mass of women, each of them with at least one child, whether or not that child was hers, huddled together for the protection of numbers. Each and every one was someone who lived on the surface: humans mostly, but dwarves, varying races of elves, a gnome or two, even another drow who apparently lived in Cormanthor. There had even been a fire giant with them until she stomped off to who-knew-where, and a sea elf – breathing with a magical globe of water conjured around her head – until they came across a river, which she had dove into without hesitation or a glance backwards that any of them had been able to see. And leading the lot of them, trying to keep them together and organize them, was a human woman named Melissan.

Like all the other women, she was disheveled from the events at the temple, and a long run over night, her dress tattered – some may even say indecent - and stained with blood that she claimed belonged to a priestess of Bhaal. She was desperately trying to organize the remaining forty or so women into some sort of column that had a chance of escaping.

"But what are we going to do?" a small, somewhat pretty woman from Kara-Tur demanded. She had a boy, big for his age, at her side. "Melissan, my son and I need shelter-"

"We all need shelter, you short-lived, two-legged roach of a woman!" another woman interjected. This one was a wild elf. While most resented their disheveled state, wild elves, this one in particular, flaunted it.

"Please, please!" Melissan yelled, tucking a lock of red-gold hair behind her ear and raising her hands to try and get attention and prevent the fight that was brewing from bubbling over. "I know that all of you are tired. We all are. I know that all of you are hungry. We all are. But we must continue flight from the temple for now. And we must stay together. Alone, any one of us is an easy target for a wild cat, or a wolf, or a Bhaal-trained assassin. This road is too well-worn to be a coincidence. It _must_ lead somewhere where we can find food and lodging. Taka, Elliandre, please… both of you calm down and we will all be fine. The others look to the two of you almost as much as they do to me."

Fear was a very effective tool, especially when none of them had the slightest idea where they were. They would stay together long enough to reach a nearby town, assuming that there _was_ a nearby town, but Melissan was sure that her reasoning was correct. And then they would disperse, as they must. Each of them had birthed a child of a dead god, children who would almost certainly be compelled by their very blood to follow their father's portfolio as murderers, if these women's husbands didn't strangle them _and_ the bastard offspring in some misbegotten sense of self-righteousness first. Taka, the Kura-Turan, looked disgruntled, but stopped shouting, holding in her young son, Sarevok, a little higher and a little tighter. Elliandre, the elf, just leveled her with a glare.

That the 'Lord of Murder' had 'perished' beyond recall was of no true surprise to Melissan. She had studied the prophecies of Allaundo in her younger days, and thought she knew the warning they contained. It was beginning. The Children _would_scatter. Everything was falling out of place, just as had been foretold. The 'score of mortal progeny' had passed out of their fathers' hall, either into the grave or the relative safety of their mothers' – even if it were adoptive mothers' – homes. And the 'chaos sewn in their passage' in and of itself might have done - to an individual without as much foresight as Melissan - to satisfy the last line of the prophecy. She didn't think so.

Now all that was necessary was patience, perhaps years' worth of patience. It would be at least two decades, but likely longer, before everything reached its apex and started falling back, and even then, it would need to be poked and prodded as it fell to ensure that it was all properly placed. For now, Melissan contented herself to lead the women down the slopes of the mountain, away from the fallen temple. She was far from alone in the hope that she would never set eyes on that accursed place again.

[-]

_Some time later:_

An old, rickety looking wagon trundled slowly up the narrow path to the gates of the library-fortress of Candlekeep. It looked old and worn, with the side rails bearing many splinters, and no trace of paint left on its weathered woodwork. In its seat, which looked as though it had recently been hand-planed until it was very smooth, was a middle-aged man. He was rather unimpressive-looking, with a very neatly cut head of short, gray hair that belied his youth, an average build, and an weary face that showed years of toil, in which was set a pair of light grey eyes wearied with concern and sorrow. With him were two little girls. One of them, with a short mop of black hair, and a pair of pointed ears betraying elven heritage, was curled up in her seat, fast asleep. Her name, given to her by Gorion, was Lysara. The other one, a human by the looks of her, was quite awake, and bouncing around the cart, her almond-shaped, chocolate-colored eyes going this way and that, trying to take in everything at once. This little handful was named Imoen.

Gorion pulled the reins, cueing the small mule pulling the wagon to stop just as they reached the gates. With difficulty, Gorion climbed down and, with a slight limp, approached the Warder - the one who kept watch over Candlekeep's entrance. Without a word, he simply handed him an old, worn book. After examining this for a moment, he nodded at Gorion, and gestured him through the now opening gates. A stable boy with wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and a somewhat vacant expression approached to handle the cart as Gorion retrieved his remaining pack, woke up Lysara, and led both girls into the outer grounds.

Candlekeep was both a library and an imposing fortress. Built originally as an outpost in some war which bears no influence over the current tale, monks and priests of both Denir and Oghma, the two gods of knowledge, had taken up residence. There were two sets of walls surrounding the towering library's keep. The outer grounds, behind the outermost wall, which completely encircled both the inner grounds and the keep itself, were home to the stables, a temple of Oghma, a barracks, wherein the watchers of the keep slept, warehouses for food and water stores, and an inn, unimaginatively named the Candlekeep Inn. The inner grounds behind the inner wall, which encircled the keep itself, were home to several grand fountains, and a brick walkway which wound through carefully tended flower gardens on all sides of the library, a place of quiet contemplation and discussion most days that the sky was clear.

Gorion flagged down one of the Watchers - a young man named Hull - and requested that he keep an eye on the girls while he had a word with the library's master. Then he climbed up the high steps, and walked through the wide-open double doors, which were tall enough to admit a small giant, into the library itself. Imoen was now bouncing around in the flowerbeds, giggling and having a great deal of fun, all the while avoiding Hull's awkward attempts to restrain her. It amused Lysara to watch hull trying to bend down and grab the rambunctious Imoen, who was having no difficulty moving whatsoever, while Hull, who was in the full plate mail worn by the watchers, was having a great deal of trouble keeping up. After a few minutes, though, Lysara turned her blue eyes to the water. In spite of the racket Imoen and Hull were making - Hull kept tripping, which made a tremendous clanging and clattering sound – all sound was being gradually blocked by a tone which was building within her own ears, or perhaps her mind. She watched a raven's reflection land on the wall's in the water. She had been trying to clear the noise from her ears and almost looked away, before the bird's eyes caught hers. There were no whites, no pupils, just solid black orbs, transfixing her to the spot with an inexplicable terror.

The sound of voices raised in argument drawing nearer pierced the fear and the noise that was blinding her to the outside world. With a start, she looked around just in time to see Gorion and Alastor, the library's head, come through the main doors from the keep, deep in a rather heated argument, though her ears had not cleared enough for her to hear. Alastor stopped, and looked between Imoen and Lysara, then wheeled back on Gorion.

"Alright, they can stay!" He said with fury in his voice, "But they are, _both_ of them, _your_ responsibility. He turned and strode away without another word.


	2. Day of Life and Night of Death

Chapter 1  
>Day of Life and Night of Death<p>Eighteen years had passed since Lysara came to Candlekeep. Her once straight black hair had become wavy, fell to the middle of her back when loose, and turned the color of chestnuts. Her body now betrayed her heritage as much as her ears did. She was, by human standards, rather short, extremely thin, and her curvature generous - this time by elven standards - yet her muscles were well toned. It wasn't that she had an unhealthy lack of fat, but rather appropriate to her build. Her hair was, as it often was, tied back in a loose ponytail as she went about her day-to-day chores and lessons; during which she wore, as she did today, a simple pair of dark blue breeches and a loose, mid-grey tunic. Her chores, which varied day by day, could include: dusting and polishing tables and bookcases, putting books back in their proper place, helping Imoen in the stables - which was rare because of the inherent trouble the pair got into when they were given a task together - and cleaning the statues in the temple, which was also rare after an incident involving Imoen and a jar of ink.<p>

Today, she had been instructed to assist one of the visiting nobles, a snotty, self-absorbed brat of a man named Lord Aton Romsy around, and fetch whichever books he required for his research. It was a slow, tedious job, as she couldn't leave the man's side except to get him books, often these had no bearing on the prophecies he claimed to be studying, but were coincidentally located on a high enough shelf which she had to climb a ladder to reach them, or put away those he didn't need. He seemed to be trying to piece together what a particular prophecy meant, and having very little luck at it. The first time he recited it, it struck some deep chord within her. After the ninth time of him reciting it, trying to find hidden meanings, she was extremely annoyed, but knew it by heart:

The Lord of Murder shall perish,  
>But in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny.<br>Chaos will be sewn in their passage.  
>So sayeth the wise Alaundo<p>

Finally, seeming extremely frustrated, he spun on Lysara and said, "I can't seem to figure this thing out! Have you any thoughts on the prophecy, wench?"

"Perhaps my Lord does not understand the common tongue," she snapped, her patience at an end. She knew full well that the books which required a ladder to reach were summoned simply because it gave him a view of her climbing said ladder, and didn't like it at all. "It simply means that Alaundo knew Bhaal was going to die, but have children first and that they'd cause an unholy ruckus, just like I'm going to do in a minute… Sir."

"Impudent, ignorant... wench! Prophecies never mean exactly what they say. Begone with you! I shall speak to your superiors about your tongue."

Without another word, Lysara turned on her heel and strode out of the library. She was absolutely fuming. Very little in her life had ever infuriated her more than being called 'wench' and being oggled like a steak didn't help her anger either. She steamed and stormed and fumed the whole way to her next stop, causing several resident scholars to step lightly out of her path. Each was far too aware of her temper. She was to be studying sword techniques at the barracks training ground, which would be a good means of venting her excess anger.

"What's bothering you, Lys?" Jarl was one of the keep's watchers. His rugged face held the scars of battle and war – all before he decided to take an easy job in the last years of his career – while his black hair was kept back in a topknot. Gorion paid him to tutor her in combat because he was the best warrior in the keep, and because she absolutely loved his fighting style, which was as much flash and performance as it was lethal. Though he was the same height as Lysara, and looked even less muscular than she, he had a singular gift for predicting where his opponent was going to move and what they were going to do, giving the impression that he was almost twice as fast as his already above-average speed. He also had an even temper, and a fair sense of right and wrong.

Taking a moment to compose herself, Lysara answered him, "Nothing, really. I shouldn't have let him get to me."

Surprisingly, Jarl let out a laugh. "Lord Romsy?" he asked.

"How…" she started, but he cut her off.

"Let's just say that you're not the first woman to become irritated with Romsy's constant glances, nor the first that he asks to fetch books from the upper shelves. Why I recall one of the girls — he always asks for a young woman to aid him — actually… well, let's not go there. But that's enough about him. Shall we get to the lesson?"

Before she could say anything, he handed her a sword belt, with a short sword in its scabbard on the left, and a dagger buckled to it on the right. This was odd, as he'd always just given her the blades, and not the sheaths; she preferred the sword and dagger combination.

"Now Lys, how you draw a sword can have a huge impact on what you're going to do with it in the first few heartbeats of the fight…" He began, starting the lesson. After two straight hours, the first of which was devoted to drawing the weapons, how it impacted technique, speed of the draw, and probability of disarming or being disarmed, Lysara made her way back to her quarters on the third floor, her arms and shoulders positively aching, yet feeling that she'd made progress. She was a quick study, and Jarl was a good teacher.

The sun was just beginning to set behind the western wall, over the sea when she reached her room. It was slightly larger than most of the cells used by the monks and priests, and held all the personal treasures that she'd collected over the years. Her bed was made only because the daily cleaners made it, and the same was true of her dressers and wardrobe. Her desk, if one could call it that, was a disorganized mess; scraps and whole roles of parchment scattered about its surface, as well as an old spinning top which she'd long since lost the string to littering its surface. She deliberately kept her room messy, despite the way it irked her; as it made it much harder for the warders to search it for the treasures that she and Imoen had the habit of accumulating from unsuspecting guests who had made one or the other angry.

She sat down as she usually did during sunset - whenever she had the time to watch it - on the narrow window sill, her back leaning against one side, and both knees drawn to her collar bone. She loved the sunset. Sometimes she even said a prayer to Lothandar, god of the sun. Well, he was god of the dawn, anyway, but in her mind there was little difference. Today she quietly sung one of the hymns she'd picked up digging through an old songbook in the library. As she looked out, the sun's light glinted off of the waters and clouds, and the horizon seem to glow, even as trees turned to shadow along the cliff shore. As she took it in she allowed her mind to wander into her usual daydream, the one where she single-handedly stopped a war and became a heroine, to everyone's admiration, including some handsome paladin that treated her as a lady despite her legendary capabilities. It was not until the sun's upper rim sank beneath the horizon that she turned back to her quarters.

She nearly fell out of the window. An auburn haired human woman stood right next to her, her chocolate-colored eyes twinkling and a mischievous grin on her youthful face. Lysara leaped onto her feet, yelling in surprise at her childhood friend, Imoen, who just giggled and winked. "Happy day of life, Lys." she said, pulling a box out from behind her back.

"Im, you know I hate it when you do that… but thanks." Lysara said, taking the box. In it was a pair of strange boots, which appeared to be her size. They were finely made of a very soft leather, the same - or very close - color as the stonework of the keep, and looked extremely sturdy, with laces going up the seam in the middle designed to look like interwoven vines.

"Aww, you old stick in the mud. Live a little, and relax for once." Imoen replied, "I figured you'd like those. Took me a whole month's allowance to buy 'em for you. Can't ya' figure out what they are?"

Lysara tried the boots on, which came up just below her knee, and tried taking a few steps in them. They didn't make the slightest sound that she could detect. After another moment's thought, she replied, "These boots... they were made by my people, yes? The wood elves?"

Imoen's grin, if possible, became even wider. "You got it! Merchant told me they were made in Sulda-something. Figured they'd come in handy, and-" she was cut off here as Lysara threw her arms around her, holding her dear friend tight, which was a thanks more profound than any words.

"Ease off, there!" Imoen pretended to protest, returning the hug for a moment before pushing Lysara away by her shoulders, "Oh, and Mr. G. wants to see you."

Lysara's good mood instantly evaporated. She knew what was coming. Gorion was going to tell her off for her behavior earlier, and she knew she deserved it. Times like those, and there had been a good number before, were the only ones when he seemed to get angry with her.

"Thanks again Im." Lysara told her.

"Aww, you in trouble?" Imoen asked knowingly.

"Lost my temper again. This time it was with that bastard Romsy."

"Oh I heard about that. I don't think your dad will be too mad at you. I would've slapped the guy, then kicked him in a rather unseemly place if he'd been gawking at me like that."

She thanked Imoen again, vocally this time, and started down the hall to her father's room. Imoen caught up to her before she'd made it a dozen paces. "Nah, he's not in his room," she said, "Tethie's got him."

An unfamiliar acolyte they were passing glanced up at hearing the library's headmaster referred to as 'Tethie' but said nothing. Lysara dismissed him as being new, since she thought she knew the faces of all the acolytes.

"Thanks, Im." Lysara said, changing course for the stairwell. Tethtoryl was the new Headmaster of the library, having taken over for Alastor about five years prior. He had his office on the seventh - and highest - floor, in his predecessor's chamber. She ascended the wide stone stairwells, her boots still making absolutely no noise as she climbed, a mixture of guilt and anxiety brewing in her. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she reached for the solid oak door to the dean's office, fingers curled to rap on it with her knuckles.

Before she could touch it, the door burst open so suddenly, and with such force that she had no chance whatsoever of moving out of the way. She half spun, reflexively trying to dodge as the door's edge hit her forearm. She turned back to the figure in the doorway, expecting herself to demand an apology. She froze though, some terrible fear gripping her, as she realized that the man in the doorway was so much taller than her, that the top of her head came just barely short of his diaphragm. He was about three times as wide in the shoulders and was also extremely brawny.

But it was not his physical stature that evoked her fear. She looked up, and saw a bald head and chiseled face framing a pair of cold, cruel black eyes, like twin windows into the abyss. One glance at those eyes was what struck terror into her heart. Though she'd forgotten it, they were almost exactly like the raven's eyes she'd seen as a child, eyes that she had once had nightmares every eve about, except these eyes had whites.

Her facial muscles went slack, and she felt her jaw drop. Then the man's deep voice bellowed "Out of my way!" and one of his heavily muscled arms swatted her to the floor as though she were some kind of annoying insect. She fell on her rump and skidded painfully along the smooth tiles.

He moved quickly past her, his heavy footsteps reverberating so badly that she could hear him even after he was concealed by the stairwell. As she picked herself up, Gorion appeared in the doorway.

"Lysara! Did he injure you?" Gorion said, his normally gentle voice full of concern and… fear?

"No, father, I'm unhurt." she replied. Gorion was one of the only people she was ever formal with.

Gorion ushered her into Tethtoryl's office. Tethtoryl himself was a short, frail-looking man in the autumn of his life. He was a little on the rotund side and balding, with only a few whips of white hair left on his head. He bowed to her and excused himself to reprimand the large man, whom he referred to as Koveras.

"Father, was that man a friend of yours?" she asked as she rubbed her forearm without thinking.

Gorion looked at her a moment, as though considering how best to answer her. He did this quite often, which often led her to believe that all parents did the same to their children. After a moment, he answered, "No, child. That man is no friend of mine. Nor, I think, will he ever be any friend to you."

Something in his tone gave pause to Lysara, but she had no time to voice it because Gorion gestured at a pair of boxes, one was long and wide but relatively flat, the other one was quite short, but even thinner and a little deeper. Even with her limited magical training - she had very little aptitude in the Art - she could sense an extremely powerful aura coming from them. He asked her, "Well, are you going to open your life-day gifts?"

Lysara looked startled, having expected to be bereted for her earlier behavior. Gorion noticed her expression, smiled kindly, and said, "No, child. You will not be reprimanded for your outburst this afternoon. Compared to almost all of the actions that others in your position took against the… er, the young lord, yours was actually quite tame. I am proud of your restraint, my dear. Now, are you going to open your gifts?"

Lysara, her spirits considerably lightened, approached the desk, but one question was still on her mind, which she asked of her father, "Father, you almost never come to see Tethtoryl. Why are you here?"

Gorion gave her that certain look he used whenever she noticed something he'd rather she didn't; which happened more frequently as she grew older. "Child, I will tell you that tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy your day of life," he replied. Then noticing her reaching for the larger box, he added, "The shorter one first, dear one."

As instructed, she pulled the lid off of the shorter box, which was labeled with her adopted father's name. What was inside made her jaw go completely slack once more. After a few moments of stunned silence, she drew out a sword belt. What it was made of, she had no idea. It wasn't leather, at least not any leather that she recognized; but it was some sort of extremely soft and supple material braided together to give the illusion of woven vines. Seamlessly attached to, or else a permanent part of the belt were two scabbards. She could see no way to remove or detach them from it.

On the left was a sheath for a short sword, complete with blade, again made out of no wood she could identify, but completely smooth - bereft of even visible or tangible wood grain. It was a solid, handsome black except for gold rune letters down the side, and the symbol of a tree directly below the mouth. Although she had studied her peoples' language, she could not read these runes. On the right side - as it have been while being worn - was a smaller sheath with different, but equally incomprehensible runes, including an icon of a drop of water, which held a dagger. She fixed the belt around her waist, finding that it fit perfectly, and seemed to just sit there on her hips so long as the two ends crossed each other. There was no proper buckle. Eagerly, she pulled the weapons out of their respective sheaths.

The sword was magnificent, like nothing she'd ever seen. It was so light compared to the blade Jarl had her practicing with, and seemed to be perfectly balanced. The entire sword seemed to be made out of a single piece of pure silver or perhaps platinum, with the slender grip wrapped in a soft material that felt like leather and molded itself to fit her hand. The blade tapered from the cross-guard to a fine point, and the edges were sharper than razors, yet would not, it seemed, cut her finger as she ran it down the edge. The dagger was a miniature version of the sword, but perfectly balanced for either close combat or for throwing. After putting the blades through a brief practice maneuver, she sheathed them again.

"Beautiful." Gorion commented.

"You've never drawn them yourself?" Lysara asked, tilting her head curiously.

"I came across this blade and dagger set in my adventuring youth. Some friends and I drove a red dragon from its lair. Being then fond of the double-weapon combination, as you are now, I took this as my share, not even realizing that I cannot draw them from their sheaths. I believe I know why, but I'll get into that later. I thought you might like them, though, and my researches led me to believe you would be able to use them. The other box contains some things that another took from that same horde."

Opening the longer box, Lysara found a longbow, taller than she was. The haft was made of the same smooth black wood as the sheaths on her belt, while the string appeared to be a single strand of the same fibers that made up the belt itself. She drew it back to test it, and as she did so, a translucent arrow sprang into being, in position to be fired. Very slowly, she let up tension on the string, and the arrow vanished.

"Another piece of my heritage?" she inquired, awed by the weapon. Archery had always been a favored part of her education.

"As well as the cloak underneath it," Gorion answered, "All of your presents this year have something to do with your elven heritage; including that pair of boots that I don't seem to recall on you before. You see, the owner of the bow, another wood elf, was never able to use it either, something which leads me to the belief that their magic is locked to a specific bloodline. To cut the story short - I'm rather short on time now - my research has shown me that you are the last known daughter of that ancient bloodline… on your… your mother's side."

So entranced was she with these things that it took her a moment to register what he had said. "My mother?" she asked softly, looking at him hopefully. "My mother was a queen, then?"

"No… I'm sorry child. I promise… I promise soon, I will answer all of your questions. All of them. Your cloak?"

She drew a hooded cloak which she hadn't noticed out of the box that had contained the bow. It was grayish in color and woven of yet another material she hadn't yet seen, though she was sure it was different from the others. At the neck was a clasp shaped like a sword behind a leaf. She didn't hesitate to put it on, though it was a bit of a juggling act as she still held the bow.

"Another piece of the same set?" she asked. The cloak wasn't quite as fine as the other pieces, but it looked to be of a kin to it.

"No, no." Gorion said, chuckling. "The cloak, chain mail, helmet, and the other pieces remain lost. All I know of them for certain are that they aren't in any museum I could find, nor a private collection. And that they were the property of a king, or at the least a noble. Several thousand years ago."

Another question sprang to her lips, but this one died before she gave it voice. Gorion made a brushing motion at her and said, "Shoo! Shoo! I must find Tethtoryl, and seal his office when I leave," while trying to suppress a chuckle.

She couldn't help gawking at the bow for a few more minutes once she arrived at her room. Then she leaned it up next to the door and left, doing something she'd never before bothered to do. She locked her door.

Once out in the night, she drew the cloak's hood up over her head and pulled it tight about herself. Just then an idea came to her, and she made her way to the stables, where she stood quite still in the shadows by the wall. Surely enough, after a few minutes, Imoen came by, leading a horse belonging to one of the departing guests. Lysara crept very stealthily to follow Imoen, who was humming cheerfully to herself and to the horse on the way to the gate. Just a little farther and they were passing through the darkest part of the outer grounds. A grin crept across Lysara's delicate features.

Never in her whole life prior had Lysara seen anyone jump so high, or land in quite so much mud as she leaned in and whispered the word 'boo' into Imoen's ear. The other girl let out a short, piercing scream that was especially painful to Lysara's elven hearing and more than likely carried over the whole of Candlekeep. The horse responded as well, rearing up and neighing loudly before bolting. But it had been worth it. After about ten years of Imoen sneaking up on her, and ten years of trying to return the gesture with no success, Lysara had finally gotten her back. After Imoen's stream of cursing had abated, she allowed Lysara to give her a hand out of the mud.

At least, that's what Lysara thought.

Imoen cackled with impish delight as she yanked her best friend into the mud with her. Watchers converged on the spot, swords bared, but it didn't take them long to figure out what had happened, though they almost went for Lysara, not recognizing her at first, stuffbefore Imoen stopped them. This wasn't the first time that any of them had been called upon to pull those girls out of the mud. After the watchers had left, Lysara showed Imoen the cloak, swords, and belt. Imoen, her spirits high, even by her standards, cracked her best grin, and said, "Ha! Now I don't have to buy you anything for about six years! Yikes! I'd better catch that horse and get him to the gate. Comin' with?"

"Nah, I think I'll drop by Winthrop's for a drink."

"Kay, bye." Imoen said over her shoulder as she sped off in the direction the horse had bolted. Lysara, feeling more content than she had in months, made her way over to the inn and went inside without event.

The Candlekeep Inn was fairly small, usually used by merchants passing through, as the keep itself held the quarters for the visiting researchers, students, and staff. When Lysara entered, one or two of the patrons looked up, but almost immediately went back to whatever they were doing, except Lord Romsy himself, who glared at her a moment before indignantly huffing his way up the stairs. As she went up to the bar, a portly, completely bald man with grayish blue eyes, who wore an apron over his tunic, welcomed her.

"Well, if it ain't my favorite little Miss Vantress," said Winthrop, eyeing her new gear appreciatively, which for some reason caused her ears to start to tingle, "Come of age, today, eh? First ale of yer choice is on me, lass."

"Thanks," she replied, "Let's see... the Bitter Black Ale is supposed to be good, right?"

"Ain't me personal favorite. Not got much kick to it. Though a little lady like yerself'd probably be better off with somethin' that ain't got so much kick, aye?" Winthrop chuckled, and then said, "I'm only joke'n. Tell ya what, what you're want'n is Shadowdale Wine. Good stuff if ye've not drinked before."

"Alright then, I trust ya, Winthy," she answered, a smile on her face. The common room wherein the bar was located was empty now, except for Lysara, Winthrop, and some man in an armchair by the fire who seemed to have nodded off. Winthrop pulled out an empty mug and searched around under the counter for a moment, before sighing. "Jus' a moment, lass; I'll just go get a bottle from the cellar," he explained.

As soon as Winthrop was out of sight, Lysara crept up the steps to the second floor. After quickly checking three of the doors, she found what she was looking for: a contentedly snoring Lord Romsy. She crept into his room, making no sound a sleeping human would ever perceive, let alone one who snored so loudly, and looked around. Aside from the inn's minimal accommodations, the only thing that may have belonged to Romsy was a wooden chest with a tough looking lock on it.

No question about it, Imoen was the better lock-pick. It took Lysara almost a minute to spring the lock, all the while casting nervous glances between the sleeping Romsy and the cracked-open door. She sifted through an assortment of clothing, cloaks, shoes and boots – being very careful to leave them approximately where she found them – before coming to something interesting: a jewelry box. A brief inspection for traps and a few seconds later and the box was open. By now she was running out of time; Winthrop would be coming back from the cellar any moment, and was unlikely to appreciate her ripping off his customer… again. She hurriedly picked out three pieces of jewelry, and two gems that didn't have any kind of distinctive symbol on them, stuffed them in a special tight-seal pouch that she and Imoen had invented, replaced the box and left the room, closing the door as she tucked the pouch down her was back at the bar with almost half a minute to spare, barely remembering to pull her hood down and wipe her face clean of sweat. Winthrop came out carrying a dusty bottle and saying, "I think ye'll really enjoy this, ye will."

Then he was pouring, and she was tasting alcohol for the first time. She enjoyed the taste of this wine, which, she also enjoyed, seemed to have absolutely no other effect on her; so she drank down the whole flagon in two pulls while Winthrop just stared at her.

"Delicious, Winthy. Didn't feel a thing," she said.

"You just wait, ye do," he replied as she waved herself out, "takes a bit afore ye start ta feel 'nythin'."

Lysara's ears tingled as she stepped out of the inn, and she was was about halfway to the stables when she heard a whistling sound, and then felt a sharp pain in her right arm. She looked down at it to see a tear in her tunic sleeve, which was starting to turn a dark color, spreading downward. What, exactly, had grazed her, she didn't know, but didn't have time to think about it. She dove left just as she picked up on another whistling sound – this one followed by a thunk – and scurried around behind a warehouse. She tried to calm herself as she moved around behind the warehouse, being as quiet as possible, in spite of her rapid breathing. Someone had tried to shoot her. Twice!

Then her ears picked up a cranking sound followed by a click. So, whoever was shooting at her was using a crossbow, and they were close enough for her to hear. That gave her a good estimate of the distance and an approximate direction. Her heart was telling her to run like hell, but her head was telling her it was a bad idea to expose her back to an archer that way. And besides, she wanted to know who wanted her dead, and why.

As she moved along the back wall towards the side of the building that faced the inn, she pulled her sword from its sheath. She was almost to the corner when something slammed hard into the side of her face. She spun, her sword dropping from her hand as the ground rushed up to meet her. Even as this happened, there was another twang, and a clip as the bolt struck stone and skipped.

There was an incoherent snarl of rage, and a pair of hands closed over Lysara's throat. Instinctively, she tried to seize her opponent's arms. She tried repeatedly to break his grip, but it was too strong. Everything was turning a spotted black as she struggled to breathe. Then, as suddenly as her throat had been closed, it opened again. Coughing and trying to inhale at the same time, Lysara rolled up into a kneeling position.

Then someone kicked her in her presented rear-end, and she understood. Whoever her attacker was, they meant for her to die slowly, and in a very humiliating way. Her heart seemed to freeze as she felt someone trying to pull her pants off. That was what really got her into motion. She rolled up onto her side and kicked out with her leg, almost at random, and was rewarded with the sound of a bone breaking as she made contact. Somewhere above her a male voice swore loudly, and she'd caught her breath enough to let out an ear-piercing scream for help as she gained her feet back.

A heat-silhouette of a man in a hooded cloak, dagger drawn, greeted her as she stood. She just barely pulled her own dagger in time to parry his thrust. He countered with a kick of his own that connected painfully to her ribs and laid her back in the mud. She saw him, standing above her, dagger raised for a killing strike. So she took the only two actions she could.

A ball of mud hit the man's eyes at almost the exact second that her boot's toe connected with his groin. Off balance, blinded and in pain, he staggered backwards and slumped down next to the wall. Lysara rolled into a crouch directly in front of him, picking up his dagger as she went. With both blades pressed against his throat, she questioned him:

"Why did you try to kill me?"

He went still, his expression somehow smug even as he froze in the act of trying to wipe the mud from his eyes. In response, she lowered her left hand, which held her own blade, to point at a somewhat lower target than his throat before repeating the question. He didn't look quite so smug, but still held his tongue.

She only just heard the second person approaching behind her, and acted on instinct. Her left weapon reversed and drove back and up, impaling itself the stomach of a second assailant, and the man behind her let out a sound she could put no name to. This action, however, caused her right hand to move forward just a little too far, and opened the first man's throat. A grunt, a gurgle, the sound of a weapon hitting the ground, and a corpse falling were the sounds of that horrible second. Yet none of them registered.

She had killed.

She had killed two people.

But the second man wasn't dead yet. His mouth was working, but Lysara didn't hear his words. She picked up her sword, and ran as fast as she could towards the keep. She had just crossed the threshold on her way to Gorion's room when the alarm bell, heard so rarely, began to sound.

It seemed almost as though he was expecting something like this to happen. He was so calm, or at least he seemed to be, after checking her for wounds and healing the cut on her arm. Barely aware of what he was saying, she did as he ordered. She went back to her room, stuffed some clothes into a sack, including her stash of purloined gems and coins, shouldered her bow, and joined him in the gatehouse. He led her out of Candlekeep, off of the main road at first chance, and started cross country. Lost in her own thoughts of the last half an hour, dwelling on the lives she had just taken, absorbed in the horror she was feeling, she barely heard most of what Gorion was saying, and paid no attention whatsoever as he guided her through the forest.

"Need to move... harder to find us in a crowd... Baldur's Gate..."

At the last one, she snapped out of her trance and suddenly noticed that for the first time she was outside the walls of Candlekeep. She also finally noticed that her ears were tingling again in the oddly silent forest, and Gorion was talking.

"Hurry, child. The night can only get worse, so we must find shelter soon. Don't worry; I will explain everything as soon as there is time." He suddenly stopped talking, and walking, throwing out an arm to signal her to halt. Somewhere up ahead a branch had snapped, as though a creature stepped on it. Lysara's heat-seeing eyes caught the forms of several large beings up ahead.

"Prepare yourself, child. We are in an ambush," He whispered to her.

But it seemed that somehow, whoever was out there heard him, because the heat silhouette of a very large person stepped forward and said in a very deep, hateful and angry voice, "You're perceptive for an old man. You know why I'm here: Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist it shall be a waste of your life!"

When he stepped forward again into the open moonlight, he slipped out of the infrared spectrum and into the visible. Lysara could make out some details about his armor. It was a dark color, but she couldn't tell exactly what color it was, and spikes were protruding from every joint and along his forearms and the sides of his lower legs and pauldrons. From his helmet came two tall, curving horns, and from under his visor came two yellow points of light that may have been his eyes, yet she knew of no creature with such eyes. And she saw the light of the moon gleaming off of the largest sword she had ever seen.

"You're a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt," Gorion replied coolly.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, old man," the armored figure replied with a voice now full of contempt. There was something familiar about that voice, as though Lysara had heard it before.

At that exact second, there was a click-twang of a crossbow being fired. If Lysara hadn't twisted in order to reach for her weapon, the crossbow bolt would have hit her heart, rather than her shoulder. The pain was unbelievable. Her knees caved and her uninjured arm supported her in a kneeling position, all thoughts of fighting gone. Gorion sent some sort of spell at the unseen foe that had fired the shot.

"Run child! Get out of here!" he yelled at her.

She somehow fought her way through the pain and got to her feet, staggering as much as running as fast as she could manage with a bolt in her shoulder, and forced herself to ignore the sounds of Gorion's spell casting, as well as the indescribable pain that jolted through her with each step. A horrible numbness began to spread from the wound, down her left arm, which began to hesitate to answer her commands. She briefly wondered if the bolt might have been poisoned or if that was just a consequence of a true wound, which she had never suffered before.

When she reached the edge of the clearing, and was safely up a tree - her arm was now completely numb, and the feeling was spreading into her chest - she turned to watch the battle unfold, allowing her elven eyes to slip into the thermal-seeing range as the moon once was once again obscured by a passing cloud. She saw two incredibly hot and large hulks on the ground. The third, Gorion's, was working his hands furiously, sending wave after wave of magic – whose flashes kept forcing her eyes back into the visible spectrum - towards the armored fiend. But it didn't seem to matter. The monstrous warrior seemed to simply shrug off Gorion's most powerful spells, though they did slow his advance. At last, the steady stream of magic seemed to be slowing down as Gorion tired. Spell after spell he hurtled at the warrior, but none seemed to actually faze him. Finally, after Gorion could summon no more magic, an armored hand shot forward and grabbed him about the throat, hoisting him several feet off of the ground. Whether or not the fiend spoke, Lysara never heard, but after a moment, he brought his other hand in close to his chest, the arm-blades oriented at Gorion's. A moment later, the warrior moved both hands in one sharp movement: His right pulling Gorion in, his left pushing the arm-blades into his victim's chest and heart. Lysara let out a sob, using all her restraint and willpower not to scream as her father's body crumpled to the ground.

The armored bastard bent over, pawing at the ground where she'd been shot. He didn't seem to find anything, probably because it was too dark for him to spot her trail. He straightened up, picked up his sword, and shouted out:

"Hear me, Lysara Vantress! One way or another, THIS..." he chopped down, cutting Gorion's corpse in half, "will be your fate! Your blood will be mine!"

He turned, though she was hardly aware. All was fading to darkness as the warrior picked up a figure no larger than Lysara. Then she felt herself falling, and all turned to darkness.

11


	3. New Life

Chapter 2  
>New Life<p>How long she'd been unconscious, Lysara didn't know. But she woke up with the sun shining brightly overhead. For a moment, just one moment, she didn't remember anything of the previous night, and wondered why she was upside-down with her rear laying on what felt like a bush, with the blood rushing to her head and her shoulders pressed uncomfortably into the dirt. The pain in her left shoulder, which threatened to knock her out again when she tried to right herself reminded her. In fact everything hurt as a tide of horrible memories flooded back, and her cheeks grew damp, then outright wet, as tears came more freely than she'd ever shed them. Then, as suddenly as a curtain dropping down on a stage, her sorrow, her rage… everything, all her emotions… went numb, and the flow of tears stopped. She'd obviously fallen out of the tree, and debated whether she was lucky to be alive. In the end, she decided she was.<p>

The unknown man in the armor, however; the bastard who had taken her father from her and shattered her heart… that she was alive would prove very unlucky for him, very soon, if she had her way.

Whatever toxin had coated the bolt was obviously no more serious than a sleep-inducing poison; making her wonder briefly whether or not they wanted her dead. Perhaps they had meant to take her alive for some reason. Perhaps the bastard had simply wanted her defenseless so he could kill her without a fight. She pushed the question and her suppositions aside, filing them away for later; assuming there was a later for her. The crossbow bolt protruding from her shoulder was very serious, though she didn't know what she could do about it. She had nothing to heal herself with on hand, no skill to use it with even if she had something, and knew she wouldn't make it very far alone even if she could force herself to walk. Even touching that thing sticking out of her shoulder seemed to make her want to faint again and just lay there until she went to meet her god. It was a fight just to stay awake.

But one of the things she'd always liked about herself was that she had a strong will; a fact that had caused Gorion to call her pure stubborn on multiple occasions. With some difficulty she extracted her legs from the bush she was laying on, and forced herself into a sitting, and then a kneeling position. After fighting her body for a few more minutes after that, she stood up, and took her first staggering steps toward her father's corpse. Even that wasn't easy, as getting to her feet made her head swim so badly she had to fight that much harder to stay conscious, and each step renewed the feeling, and sent a fresh bolt of pain through her. If she had eaten anything in the last day or so, she would have been in serious danger of losing her last meal.

She found that she didn't care, as if she were looking at herself from outside her own body even as she forced herself to move. She still couldn't move her left arm, or even twitch the fingers of that same hand, and glancing down showed her that she was still bleeding around the bolt, though slowly. Likely the bolt itself was all that was keeping her from quickly dying of blood loss.

She knew she should have felt surprised that she didn't care, but she just… didn't care.

She collapsed to her knees again at his side, and the jolt nearly made her pass out again by itself. For what seemed like an eternity, she knelt there, staring at all that was left of the man who'd raised her, cared for her, and loved her as if she were his own for as long as she could remember. The man that she loved as her father, who had frequently made her wish that she really was his daughter, though she'd known since she was very young that she wasn't of his seed. This man was her father, and she would correct anyone who tried to say differently.

His body was in two pieces, lying in a massive puddle of dried blood that had soaked into the ground, and ants and other insects were already at work on his flesh. They were nothing she could do anything about. She thought she should say something, but no words would come, except:

"I'm sorry, father. I'm so, so sorry."

She sat there, her weight resting on her ankles, saying goodbye to him over and over again and trying with her good hand to compose his hair, smoothing it out of his face, until she fell over again onto her side. The world spun around the one point upon which she could focus: his kind features. He looked so peaceful; she'd expected a mask of pain, perhaps worry or fear, but he was… serene. Her head buzzed, her shoulder throbbed, and she couldn't seem to move at all anymore.

"Goodbye, father," she whispered as the world faded to black once again. "I'll… see you… soon enough."

[-]

Lysara was surprised, in a disinterested, analytical sort of way when she awoke next. She was surprised that she awoke. She'd been certain that she was going to die. Flat on her back, her eyes focused with some difficulty on the leaves sprouting out of the branches above her. Her shoulder had stopped throbbing, but when she tried to sit up, it started again, and an incredible wave of nausea nearly overwhelmed her once more. Moving at all seemed to make that happen, as she discovered when she tried to wiggle the fingers of her left hand. As before, they didn't even twitch that she could feel. She just let out an inarticulate moan and lay back again, this time noticing that something soft had been placed under her head, and that her cloak was acting as a blanket. So, had someone rescued her? Was it some lackey of the murderer from last night, keeping her alive long enough for him to return and finish her off? Or some kind-hearted person who had wandered by and decided to help?

Even turning her head was an effort. And she had the most lovely view of dirt and trees surrounding her. She seemed to have been dragged – at least, her back and rear felt like she'd been dragged rather than carried – to the foot of a large cypress tree. Directly above her she saw nothing but white bark and green leaves, and small patches of open sky visible in the gaps between. But she managed to look down at herself, finding that someone had changed her blouse for her, and the bolt was no longer sticking out of her shoulder. The tightness across her chest and neck – she still couldn't feel her left arm – told her that she'd been bandaged. Her head felt… hollow, likely from the blood loss. Likely there was barely enough for her heart to process and keep her alive. Her breathing was labored and she felt cold, despite the pleasant warmth of the sun.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard movement not far away. Feigning sleep, she heard soft footsteps closing in on her. She lay stock still until she sensed someone very near her, and felt a gentle pressure against the side of her neck. In one sudden movement that almost knocked her out again, her good arm snapped up and her fingers closed around a thin, lean wrist even as she snarled. Her eyes opened, but whoever it was spoke before she could clear the black spots from her vision.

"Oh, thank Mask," a familiar voice of a young woman spoke from above her. Her eyes focused with difficulty on the face of her best friend. Her chocolate-brown, almond shaped eyes were filled with concern and fear for perhaps the first time. And Imoen's round, normally cheerful features were filled with worry instead of their normal mischief. "I thought you were dead for sure!" she exclaimed. "Now don't you try to move," she added, gently and with shocking ease prying Lysara's hand off her wrist and laying it on her stomach, "H-how… how are you feeling?"

"Water," Lysara croaked in response. Imoen moved out of her line of sight, but returned a moment later. As gently as she could, Imoen helped Lysara into a sitting position, and pressed the mouth of an open water skin to her lips. Delicious water flowed slowly into Lysara's very dry mouth and straight down her throat a little at a time, for which she was grateful. Even those small amounts made her sputter and spit the first few mouthfuls back out. It may have been warmer than she liked, but at that moment it was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted.

"You lost a lot of blood," Imoen explained as she gently laid her friend back down, "I was terrified that I was too late. A-are… how are you feeling?"

"Thick," Lysara answered quietly, summing up how her body felt with just the one word as she closed her eyes. "How…" she started, but she'd also started shaking her head, which made that damnable dizziness return.

"How did I find you?" Imoen asked her as much as asked for her. She really did know Lysara well, and how her mind worked under normal circumstances. Then again, it was an obvious question. "It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. There were a lot of broken branches and trampled brush on your trail and once the sun was up I saw smoke. Two big bodies – I think they were ogres, by the size - were smoldering still, more like melting really. I lost my dinner before I saw you… and then I lost it again."

"Father…" Lysara let out. She tried to scan the clearing, but couldn't muster the strength to raise her head.

"He's… He's dead, Lys," Imoen said gently. "I am so, so sorry. You were at death's door. I couldn't let the carrion be drawn here while-"

"What… have you… done?" Lysara gasped out, realizing that she must have done something with his body. She tried to rise even as Imoen gently but firmly restrained her with that same frightening ease.

"I set his stuff aside and I… I burned his body," Imoen blurted out. "Still! Be still. You shouldn't move around yet."

"How could you?" Lysara demanded, still struggling against Imoen's grip, though the nausea was almost overwhelming her yet again. "We could have… could have…" But if Imoen replied, Lysara didn't hear it. The darkness had reached up and claimed her senses again.

[-]

"Hey… you awake?" Imoen's voice pierced the veil of nothingness. Lysara struggled, breath gasping as her eyes opened to Imoen's face once more. She turned her head away, not able to do much else, refusing to look her in the eye.

"Go away." Lysara said flatly.

"Not a chance," Imoen countered instantly, sounding truly hurt. "Look, I'm-"

"Go away," Lysara repeated, just as flatly. She should have been feeling bitter and angry. Knowing that Gorion was gone beyond any hope of raising him from the dead, and being 'helped' by the bitch who had sent him beyond recall should have been enough to set her temper off like throwing a torch on a wagon full of fireworks. But there was nothing. She was shocked to realize she'd thought of Imoen as a bitch; shocked enough that Imoen got her opening.

"Listen to me… please?" Imoen implored. Without waiting for Lysara to say anything she pressed on. "I'm really sorry about it, but… I had to choose. You were dying, Lys, I know you were. He was…" Imoen's speech was choked off with tears now, but she made herself keep going. "H-he was already d-dead; m-mutilated past any hope. If I hadn't burned him, the carrion would've been all over this place... all over you." She wiped the tears from her own eyes, and straightened Lysara's hair, which kept Lysara's attention on her. "They… they would've been ripping you apart. I couldn't… I couldn't…"

"You're an expert on telling when someone is 'past hope' now then?" Lysara asked quietly, objectively; though she didn't think Imoen had heard her.

"I couldn't carry you both back, not by myself," Imoen continued when she'd composed herself a little. "A-and… and I didn't dare move you more than I had to anyway. A lot of the blood you were laying in was your own, probably almost half of it. So… I-I had to choose between the dying and the dead. If I had to again, I'd do the exact same thing. Maybe one day you can forgive me… but even if you don't I'm sticking to you like glue until you're better. If you want me to leave after that, fine. But you're stuck with me until then."

Imoen had made the right choice, Lysara knew on a rational level. It seemed all she could do at that moment was sit and think rationally. As it was, she just lay there with a growling stomach.

"Sorry Im, I'm… sorry…" Lysara issued the apology she didn't feel, still hardly able to move. Even speaking seemed to be a draining effort. Still she reached up with her good hand. But before she'd gotten it to her intended destination - Imoen's shoulder - Imoen took hold of it again and put it back down with a soft, relieved smile.

"You just rest," Imoen said gently, wiping the tears away from her own eyes. "I, uh, borrowed a curative potion before I left. Just in case, you know. Think you're strong enough to down it? They're always horrid."

"Please."

Imoen disappeared for a moment and came back with a flask of light blue liquid and helped Lysara into a supported sitting position before unstopping it and lifting it to the elf's lips. Just as she'd warned, it tasted utterly foul, but after drinking it the pain in her shoulder lessened and she found herself aware of her arm again, and able to move it a little, and close her fist. She felt a little stronger, but still as weak as a newborn. And hungry, she felt very hungry. It was then that she noticed another leather scrip on the ground next to her. It was caked with dried blood and the strap was broken, cut clean through.

"It's, it's what he had on him…" Imoen explained quietly when she noticed where Lysara was looking. "I guess that makes it yours now. I swear I haven't even opened it."

Lysara pulled it into her lap, and Imoen helped her open the latches that had held it closed so they could rummage through it. Going through Gorion's things felt… weird, and unconsciously she kept expecting him to just walk up and berate her for not keeping her nose out of his private things, though she knew that to be a child's hope.

In his bag they found a small amount of coin, some spell scrolls – none of healing, unfortunately - that Gorion apparently hadn't had the chance to use, and a very long letter. The letter was the most valuable, telling Gorion of allies in the region staying at the Friendly Arm Inn, across the Cloak River, and that they'd been told he was meeting them, and would await his arrival. It avoided mentioning names, however.

As she focused on the haze of the previous night, Lysara remembered him saying something about that inn, and two names: Khalid and Jaheria. Apart from that, it was a very cryptic text with no useful information. Even the signature was mysterious, consisting of nothing other than a stylized letter E. The letter's tone reminded her of that errant thought that Gorion had been expecting something to happen, and 'E' seemed to have expected it as well. But who 'E' was they had no idea. And how could they have possibly predicted that someone was going to try to kill her?

There were too many unanswered questions bubbling up in Lysara's mind, and nothing she had on hand was providing any clues. Khalid and Jaheria… maybe they would know. If they were really her father's friends, then they would know something about him, though not necessarily who tried to kill her or why.

That's how they stayed for the next full day. Imoen caught and cooked - which Lysara thought privately was more like charred - a couple of rabbits, and foraged up some mushrooms and berries that she recognized as being safe to eat. Imoen was even cutting the meat for her, refusing – for good reason – to let her do it herself.

"So what happens now?" Imoen asked once Lysara was capable of standing – though with assistance - a day and a half later. "Go home?"

"Can't." Lysara answered. "Without father…"

"Yeah, I know. They wouldn't let us in even under normal circumstances. And… these, uh, aren't normal. They… Uh, they say you killed someone before you left." Imoen looked like she couldn't believe it as she said it. "The dead guy's buddy swore up and down that you'd attacked them, and killed him in cold blood. Then you and Mister G just up and disappear before they can even ask for your side of it. Tethie said it made you look real guilty, and muttered something about your father that I didn't catch. He said straight-out that if you came back it'd be to go straight to the stocks… and likely the block."

"That's a lie, Imoen. They tried to kill me. They shot at me twice before they got out the knives," Lysara explained wearily, skipping over her suspicion that they'd meant to rape her before slitting her throat. There was no need to worry Imoen with that little detail. "I didn't even mean to kill them. I was just defending myself. Wait… one of them lived?"

"Yeah, long enough to swear you attacked them unprovoked anyway. I didn't stick around long enough to find out if he passed. I kind of figured that was the way of it though. Just… it's a bit of a shock, killing in Candlekeep. Don't worry, and don't look at me like that. I don't doubt your word, I'm just worried. Well, where can we go? That inn? Maybe we should. It's closer than the nearest town, but probably still days away, and I don't think you should be travelling too far just yet."

Lysara forced herself a smile she didn't feel as she looked her friend in the eye. She'd already made up her mind to try and find those friends of Gorion's. "With your help," she said, "I could make it to Netheril and back. But I'll settle for a warm bed and a hot meal."

"Aww, my blackened rabbit not good enough for you?" Imoen teased with a grin. "Reminds me of the time Winthy had me trying to make stew."

That provoked a wicked grin from both girls, piercing the veil over the elf's emotions at the reminder. "Yeah. Never made that mistake again, did he?" Lysara asked, feeling better for a few heartbeats. "Took the priests hours to heal all the burns on the guests you spilled it on."

"Almost as long as it took me to clean up the mess," Imoen teased.

"Hey, I helped!"

It was an all too brief respite where they were the same two girls, inseparable pranksters closer than sisters, which they had been for as long as either could remember. But one wince from Lysara when she tried to sit up under her own power stole all the mirth of the moment, and the curtain fell over the stage again. She suddenly caught her own smell and crinkled her nose. "I think I'll add a bath to that list, too. Cold, if I have to," she amended.

"Here, let me help," Imoen said, making Lysara put her good arm around her shoulders and lean on her. "Whew, you weren't kidding. Definitely going to do the whole 'washing' thing when we get to the river; 'cause I'm not carrying you that far smelling like that."

"Thank you, Imoen," Lysara said quietly, ignoring the jibe. Together they made their way out of the clearing, pausing only long enough for Lysara to turn and whisper goodbye one more time.

Imoen shrugged it off, Lysara feeling every tiny little nuance of the movement. "Hey, what are best friends for if not pulling your bacon out of the fire and cracking jokes about your stench?" she asked, her tone light and cheerful, though it was obviously a forced cheer as they slowly walked together.

Lysara knew even then that she wouldn't return there, that she'd said her last goodbye to Gorion. Never, not once for as long as she lived, did she set eyes on that open patch of forest again.


	4. Paths

Chapter 3  
>Paths<p>Their progress was painfully slow. Setting out at high noon, they hadn't gone even one fourth of the way to the river, near as Imoen could reckon, by the time the sun was setting. Even with help, Lysara still needed to stop frequently as the nausea and dizziness kept returning; and the less than half healed wound in her shoulder trobbed violently and near-constantly no matter what she did or didn't do.<p>

In spite everything that had happened, Lysara found a subconscious thrill at being in the wilds, away from shaped stone and worked wood, out among the nearly untouched plant-life. She'd never in living memory been outside the walls of Candlekeep; and the wood elf in her heart delighted in simply being in a forest with the wild grasses, flowers and herbs, the trees and bushes; even the moss, which she had never particularly cared for before. It was a natural joy that pierced even the seemingly solid wall of emotion-swallowing nothingness that surrounded her.

"What's up?" Imoen asked when they paused short of twilight. Apparently she had noticed the strange energy that that seemed to have infected the elf, because she commented, "You seem… bubbly." 'Bubbly' was a word that had seldom applied accurately to the normally reserved elf.

"I… don't know," Lysara answered thoughtfully. She didn't understand it herself. "It's weird. It's kind of a… happy is the wrong word, but it's the closest I can come to describing this feeling. I almost feel like… singing and dancing."

"Oh, I get it." Imoen said, comprehension clicking in her quick mind. "You're in the woods for the first time. I think I read something about wood elves and how they're connected to the wilds once, but I can't remember what it is. Anyway, when you can stand without looking like you're gonna sick up, maybe you can dance. But I don't see how a little singing would hurt."

Lysara rolled her eyes. "Yes, mother," she said. She closed her eyes and relaxed, letting the forest fill her senses. The scent of the trees and their leaves, the peat moss that she was sitting on filled her nose. The softest breeze, the sound of small creatures moving among the branches, the running water of the river – not so far away to the east as they'd believed – and the flapping wings of a middle-sized bird filled her ears. Even the feel of bark against her, through her clothes where she touched the tree she was leaning against, and the feel of the sun filtered through the forest canopy touching her. It all had a beat to it, a tempo.

She couldn't help herself any more. As she rested her back against that ancient oak, she raised her voice to music that existed only in her mind, a music whose time she subconsciously kept with the beat of the forest's heart that she'd only just discovered. Where the words or the tune came from, she hadn't a clue. She didn't even understand the words she sang, yet it was clear that they _were_ words, far too patterned for random gibberish invented on the spot. Her voice was pure and clear, and stronger than she thought possible at the moment. As she sang, the pain in her shoulder seemed to lessen, and the nausea that had forced her to stop and rest evaporated.

Imoen just sat there looking stunned as she listened, her jaw figuratively on the ground even several minutes after it was over. Then Lysara stood up, gingerly stretching her wounded arm out. Instantly, Imoen was next to her, carefully helping the elf back down as she nearly fainted on the spot.

"What's the big idea?" Imoen demanded protectively.

"Sorry..." Lysara said after her senses cleared. "I felt so much better after that; I just thought it might have helped me heal."

"Last I checked you've as much magic in you as a needle," Imoen commented with a half-smile and a forced chuckle. "Though to be fair the priests always refused to train you after… never mind that. Where'd that song come from? I've never heard_anyone_ sing like that."

"That bad?" Lysara asked analytically. She thought she wasn't anything special, but she didn't think her voice was so horrible.

"Bad?" Imoen repeated incredulously. "Lys, it was probably the most beautiful thing I've ever heard… but it was so sad. I almost cried listening to it." Lysara felt her cheeks heating at the description, though the embarrassment remained absent. "Must be an elf thing," Imoen quipped, trying to make a joke of it.

"We should get going," Lysara said after a brief silence. Her senses were back to their normal level, and she'd lost most of the sounds that she'd been so very aware of only minutes before. "We've got a little daylight left, and we can make the river before dark, I think."

"As if," Imoen said. "It's at least a league east of here and you can barely stand up. Not that I mind helping you, but I've got my limits on how far I can carry you."

"Oh, so now I'm fat?" Lysara asked, sounding dead serious.

"Puh-lease," Imoen replied, not fooled in the slightest. "You're about as fat as a broomstick." She smiled and laid a hand on Lysara's shoulder. "I just don't want to push you too hard until that… hole in you knits up."

"It's close enough that I can hear running water," the elf countered. "Even if my ears are that much better than yours it can't be so far off."

They travelled a bit further that day, despite Imoen's continued protests, and before night had fully fallen, they were sitting on the river bank. The Cloak River was a wide band of water flowing from the north, on an inlet of the Sea known as Baldur's Cove, south into lands that Lysara had no knowledge of. And it was deep enough that they weren't going to bother trying to ford or swim across it. Trees crowded almost all the way to the bank, vast branches forming canopies that eclipsed the sky, with a vine or two hanging low enough to brush the water's surface. There was but a small band of rich-looking dark soil between the water's edge and the tree line, perhaps a pace wide that periodic flooding likely prevented from growing over. Imoen built a fire, and tried to catch some food, but Lysara eventually drifted off hungry.

[-]

Upon awaking the following morning, Lysara felt that same wonderous feeling - if a somewhat lesser version of it - that had prompted her into singing the previous day. Leaving Imoen - she was a late sleeper usually - Lysara disrobed with some difficulty and waded into knee deep water. She seated herself in the water, letting it rush over her body as she carefully bathed herself, singing quietly to herself. It was nowhere near the powerful, compelling song that she'd sung yesterday, but still pleasant, at least to her ears.

Everything seemed so peaceful until she felt an unexpected splash from behind. She let out a surprised squeal, twisting to face the now wide-awake and grinning Imoen aggressively splashing water in her direction. Lysara tried to retaliate, but the first counter-splash made her reel again, and they both desisted. She just soaked, forgetting pain and weariness for a time, and then they took turns scrubbing each other's backs and doing what they could for their hair. Imoen had had the sense to have packed three bars of the hard lye soap favored by the monks in Candlekeep, but nothing for hair care.

"It's amazing how much better a bath makes you feel." Lysara commented as she dried off on Imoen's cloak. It felt like it had been a week since she'd last bathed. She'd had no idea how grimy she felt until she'd finished cleaning off. She was feeling well enough to stand now, and walk around unsupported a little.

"No kidding," Imoen replied, running her fingers through her own hair to try and get the rest of the water out. She eyed the wide, seemingly deep river skeptically. "Where's the bridge?"

"A mile or two and a very bad idea south of here," Lysara answered. "Assuming that the armored creep isn't patient enough – or doesn't have enough time - to be waiting there himself, odds are that he's got someone waiting for me there."

"Armored creep?" Imoen asked, suddenly grave, "Someone is after you? I thought… y'know…" She didn't need to complete the thought. Most people would assume that what had happened to Gorion the work of bandits or someone with a grudge against him, not someone out to kill her.

"Yeah." was all Lysara said. After a moment she detailed what she could remember of the attack to her friend. Imoen simply put her arms around her and hugged her tightly – but carefully - once the flow of words abated.

"Well," Imoen said after Lysara was finished, "you're in no shape for a fight, and I'm no match for any kind of soldier up close. I might make it past them since they're not looking for a human. I don't think they'd swallow it if we showed up together. If anything they're looking for a lone elf woman with some sort of wound. Or maybe just an elf woman; we don't know for sure if your attackers saw that bolt hit you. Maybe mister armor even thinks that the bolt killed you. It was... six or seven days ago, after all."

"Six days?" Lysara asked, shaking her head. "So I was out for… three, four days? It's possible. An armed contingent of private soldiers just standing on the only bridge out of Candlekeep would draw unwanted attention..." Lysara fell silent as she considered this.

"Okay, here's what I'm thinking:" Imoen said, breaking the long silence. "Assuming they're even there, we know they're not looking for a human. They're looking for a wounded elf. So!" She clapped her hands together, all but bouncing as she did when she was being devious. "We hide you in sight of the bridge – bless that elven vision of yours, 'in sight' is a lot farther for you than me – and I'll go ahead and check it out. I'll swing around west and cross the road first so they'll think I'm coming from the south. If it's clear, I'll signal you."

"And if it's not?" Lysara asked, shaking her head again. "They'd be on to you in a second if you tried to cross the bridge and then backed off."

"So I won't cross it," Imoen replied with one of her mischievous grins. "If the bridge is guarded, I'll act all scared and be all like," she pitched her voice up higher than normal and added a touch of fear and concern, "oh, I found this wounded elf girl in the forest, please come and help me!" Her grin changed to more wicked than mischievous, and she went on in her normal mischievous tone. "And then they'll follow me since…"

"… since they're looking for a wounded elf." Lysara finished the sentence. "And while they're gone, I just walk across and wait for you? What happens if they decide to settle for the girl they've got instead of the one they're looking for?"

"You know me," Imoen said with a conspiratorial wink.

Lysara just chuckled, remembering the mind-staggering number of times that Imoen had given the slip to the entire keep's compliment of Watchers. Common thugs wouldn't be able to hold her.

"And if Bastard One is there?" she mused at a possible hole in the plan.

"I don't think he will be."

"Why?"

"Because you were out cold for days after he… killed Mister G. If he had time to wait around and finish you off, he would've come back at daylight or just waited in the clearing until he could see well enough to find you. No; he's nowhere near here, I don't think. Whether he had 'other business' or just didn't want to wait around for soldiers investigating to show up, I don't know… no, he's long gone from here."

Imoen was a wonderfully free spirit, and a perpetual child, who usually suppressed any and all signs of her maturity. Her youthful manner and glib tongue rather belied her intelligence, and typically made people think she wasn't as smart as she was.

That was exactly how Imoen liked it.

"What if they leave a lookout on the bridge?" Lysara poked at another hole in Imoen's plan.

"If they leave one… you'll have to deal with him," Imoen said, all trace of mirth slipping away. "Just one you can handle if you get the drop on him. I know… it's horrid… but I'm not going to let you die out here…" Lysara didn't like it, but she couldn't find any fault with Imoen's logic or reasoning. After a moment, she nodded.

"Okay… I'll do it." And she had to force the bile back down. What had to be done, could be done, she had been taught. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

[-]

The plan went off perfectly. There was no sign of the armored fiend at the bridge, but there were seven heavily armed people, five men and two women. All of whom – to Lysara's immense relief - followed Imoen readily when she went to pull her diversion, not even leaving one of their number to watch. Lysara used her bow as a crutch and crossed un-harassed, if slower than she would have liked, and settled down just off the road out of sight of the bridge. About three hours after that, Imoen came hurrying down the road, casting hurried glances left and right, and over her shoulder behind her as well. Lysara picked up a small stone and tossed it onto the pavement in front of the girl's feet. At first, she gave no reaction, as if she hadn't even noticed the rock; but glancing once more over her shoulder, she turned into the woods and joined her friend, relief practically radiating off of her.

"There you are," she whispered. "I showed them down south and gave 'em the slip. No idea where they are now, but they're pro-o-obably on to me."

"Why?"

"I cut their horses loose. Thought about keeping one for us, but decided against it. A stolen horse is kind of hard to hide, and would draw the wrong kind of attention when we finally get to the inn." Glancing back at the road, she added, "Still, they've probably discovered their mounts are gone by now."

"We should get moving… and stay off the road for now," Lysara supplied.

"A most wise stratagem, young lady," an old man's voice came from behind Lysara. She drew with her good hand as she spun – almost knocking herself out again - to find an old man calmly standing there, leaning on a thin, twisted piece of wood his own height, though it would most likely have been twice that and then some had it been straight. He looked very old and frail, dressed from head to toe in gold-trimmed scarlet robes, with a wide brimmed hat in the same color scheme that was very tall and tapered to a point. His beard and moustache were both pure snowy white, the former of which was nearly long enough to reach his feet, and his eyes were a sparkling blue that made him look far younger than his wrinkles and beard did. And the aura of power coming off of practically everything he wore made her weapons look like un-enchanted twigs. That neither of them had noticed him and his garish clothing astounded her.

"Pardon me, young ladies," he said as he rested against a tree. "I need to catch my breath, if you do not mind my sharing the shade here?"

"No, of course we don't mind," Lysara said cautiously as she put on a forcedly welcome smile and eased her sword back into its sheath. She didn't have the slightest idea who this man was, but felt that it wouldn't do to act nervous and suspicious around _every_ stranger, even if they just appeared out of thin air. A wounded elf was one thing, but a wounded elf who treated everyone like she thought they'd put a dagger in her back was asking for just that to happen, and must less likely to receive aid from others for it. Besides, with the sheer amount of magic radiating off of him, Lysara thought that he was almost certainly capable of flattening the both of them without breaking a sweat. So instead she pasted a smile on her face and forced her pose to casual. Imoen caught on and mimicked her.

"Hey, it's a free road," Imoen said with a disarming grin.

"Yes, yes…" the old man said as he sank down to the ground with a grateful sigh, "apart, of course, from the bandits choking off every inch of it save the one which leads to Candlekeep. One must wonder at the mental health of those who choose to wander, when they could be home before a warm fire with a glass of mulled wine. I must wonder, if I might ask, which category the two of you would fall under: desperate, or deranged."

"So lemme see if I understand your question right." Imoen chimed in before Lysara had a chance to frame a reply. She knew she should have been angry, should have been demanding an apology, but still… nothing. "You're travelling this road, asking us, complete strangers to you, whether we're sane or not, for travelling this road?"

"Ah, point well taken." the old man said with a satisfied nod. "I shall think of you instead as determined, young lady. I think a small token of apology is in order for my rude behavior."

With that, he reached into a small pouch and withdrew a book which was bigger than its former container was. This he handed to Imoen, saying: "Here you are, young woman. I think you will find this… most instructional on the use of your subtle talents."

"Wow," Imoen said, opening the hard book and thumbing through the first few pages. "This is… incredible. So easy to understand…"

"I thought a woman of your obvious intelligence and skill would glean a great deal out of that particular tome. I wrote it myself, after all; and do not give copies out to just anyone. As such I must warn you – politely – against attempting to copy or sell it. You may take notes, but the book truly wouldn't like either of those other actions. As for you…" And he turned to Lysara. "What gift might I grant you, Madame?"

"I need no token of apology." Lysara said, holding up her good hand. "Just a name to go with the apology will do. After all, it is rather rude to start asking about one's mental state before you've introduced yourself."

"Ahh, another well-made point." he replied, standing up. "I have grossly overlooked my manners. I have not yet decided to become involved in the local events just yet, you see. People tend to ask - sometimes on the order of begging, and a very few on the order of demanding - my aid whenever they receive my name. But as you have so correctly corrected me, I have been rude. I am Elminster of Shadowdale." He bowed to each in turn as he said his name.

Imoen and Lysara let out simultaneous choking sounds, and the book that Imoen had been thumbing through tumbled out of her hands. Elminster, far quicker than any man his apparent age - or for that matter, a fraction of his actual age - had a right to be, grabbed it right out of the air and deftly wrapped it in a cloth before placing it directly into her bag.

"And," the old man continued, "I know you, Lysara Vantress and Imoen Catari. Gorion was very descriptive of Lysara in his letters, and frequently mentioned your inseparable closeness. It was most unwise of him, as I often told him. There's no telling how trustworthy couriers are. But, that is how fathers are after all, especially fathers who have such great pride in their daughter… and her choice of friends. In any event, if Gorion had finally decided to heed my advice then you - I note that he is not with you, and offer my condolences - are headed for the Friendly Arm Inn.

"Khalid and Jaheria are indeed there, though they have pressing business to the south and they will most likely not tarry there indefinitely. What you lack are their descriptions. Jaheria is a half-elven woman with strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes. She's a druid, and rather hard to miss. She's approximately half a head taller than you, and has a wit that can slice steel, usually wearing leathers or plain, frill-less clothes, wooden weapons only. Her husband Khalid is a full sun elf, about a head taller than her and never seen by anyone without his helmet and armor."

With that, he rocked on his feet, just once, seeming no longer frail at all, but full of pep and vigor. "Well, I must away. It was a pleasure to finally meet the two of you in person, and I am again most sorry for your loss." he said, dropping into a low bow. He drew some strange device that Lysara didn't recognize, but rather resembled some sort of locket out of one of his pockets. He opened it, and just looked at it for a moment before he smiled and waved, putting it away. "I'm afraid I am overdue for another appointment. But do not despair; I believe it quite likely that we will meet again."

With that, he turned around, and mimed turning a knob. Then, taking a step forward, he simply disappeared as if he'd stepped through a door. Neither of them had recovered sufficiently to speak before he was gone, and after he'd left they just sat there gaping at each other, completely dumbstruck.

"E-E-E-Elminster?" Imoen finally asked.

"Sounded like it..." Lysara affirmed. "Who would be crazy enough to impersonate him, if it's even possible?"

"Elminster says I have talent… and gave me a book of magic," Imoen mused rubbing the book's spine with her finger as it stuck out of her open bag. She was thoughtful, almost to the point of distraction as they stood up and moved on.

They were more cautious than before as they crossed the road heading north, and bearing east enough to be sure they would re-encounter the path. Elminster's warning of bandits choking the roads made them step lightly. They moved as quickly as they could, which was considerably faster than they had been, but still, they were a long way from their destination. They set down for the night a little after sunset, once again in sight of the north bound road, but far enough away that they would have warning if someone was approaching.

"So what happened with those goons?" Lysara asked when they were cloistered in their fireless camp. At least it was high summer, and as such it wasn't cold, and they were sheltered from the wind.

Snickering, Imoen stopped gazing longingly at the cloth-wrapped tome that she had thusfar refused to let out of her sight. She'd always been barred from magical training in Candlekeep on the general principle that she was likely to polymorph someone or something as a matter of a practical joke. Her exact reply to that reason was, "Thanks for the idea."

"After about an hour and a half of trying to find the spot were I'd 'found the elf' they decided I was actually looking for a nice private spot where I could practice my female-ness on them," she told in her most mischievous, conspiratorial tone. "The one that was pawing at me will be singing with a higher voice for a while, that's for sure. The two women in the group were still trying to knock some respect for us into the rest when I slipped off."

"One of these days you're going to run across some guy who won't take no for an answer," Lysara cautioned. Of the pair she'd always been the more serious… when she wasn't in trouble right alongside her.

Imoen just shrugged noncommittally, for once not looking the slightest bit mischievous. She even seemed… embarrassed, if it was possible to embarrass Imoen. She'd never seen Imoen embarrassed.

Lysara studied her friend for a moment. "You've already found that man, haven't you?" she asked quietly.

Imoen never blushed, either, but that's exactly what she did just then, avoiding Lysara's eyes. It was a discovery on her part. She thought she knew everything about Imoen. Certainly she'd never hidden anything from her. In her normal state of mind, Lysara would have felt a little hurt that Imoen hadn't shared news of such a monumental event in her life.

Imoen must have caught the sudden shift in mood because she looked back to Lysara, seeming very uncomfortable. "I didn't exactly…" she started wringing her hands together. Wringing! It was a telltale sign that she was nervous. "Look, Lys, you know I love you to pieces but… okay… okay… One evening, I'd gotten… well, it was about four years ago… I kinda lifted a bottle of booze - not even sure what kind - from Winthy. You were still stuck up in classes and I was done with chores and lessons. I was bored, y'know? There was a passing merchant guard found me all drunk and… well, I didn't say no, at least, I don't think I did. It's all kinda hazy. But… I didn't even enjoy it, Lys."

She hung her head at the last, looking so un-Imoen-like that Lysara almost didn't recognize her. Lysara slipped over next to her friend and wrapped her good arm around her. "It's okay. Some day you'll meet someone. We both will," she said, trying to be comforting.

"You… don't understand. Can… can we please just drop it? Please?" Imoen asked, looking sullen and slightly disappointed. Delicately pushing away from her, the human girl wrapped herself up in her cloak and lay down, deliberately not facing Lysara. "I'm just tired, is all. Let's just get some sleep."

Lysara wasn't that tired just yet. So she just sat there, watching her friend and listening to the forest. She could have sworn that Imoen was crying softly to herself. Had it really been that bad? Lysara wondered. Would it be so bad for Lysara when she finally found a man to share her bed with? Anything that could reduce Imoen to tears had to be absolutely horrid. Or was there something that Lysara was missing?

She was weary, but she didn't sleep that night. Long after Imoen's breathing had gone deeper and evened out, Lysara was awake, feeling stronger than she had in a while, and staring up at the stars through the boughs of the trees. A mild itching began directly on her wound that required a conscious effort to not scratch, and she had to stop herself twice when she caught herself at it. Off in the distance, a wolf howled at the moon. And then another. A pack was hunting somewhere off to the east. Crickets and owls, and a hundred other sounds that could only be heard in the deep of night far from a city sounded closer. But she didn't feel the same urge, the same joy that had crept over her the previous day. In fact, she was a little puzzled why she wasn't crying herself to sleep. Thoughts of Gorion kept intruding on plans that were half-forming in her mind, scattering them to dust on the wind. What was wrong with her? Since she left that clearing, except when Imoen had dragged out a laugh, or what that song had produced, she'd felt… numb.

It was while she was contemplating that quiet emptiness she felt within her, that dawn came. The itch that had bothered her all night had turned into a warm core that went clean through her shoulder, following the path that the bolt had taken through. She looked to the rising sun, visible through the trees on the far side of the road, but found none of the usual wonderment that had always come to her before. She said her prayer to her god, Lathander, mechanically, and went to rouse Imoen.

"Uhn…" the girl protested as her shoulder was shaken softly. "Five more minutes, pa…" Imoen thought it was her father Winthrop raising her for chores, and tried to roll over, but her weight settled on a rock or a protruding root or something, because she yelped and came awake almost instantly.

"Wha… what time is it?" Imoen asked thickly through a yawn.

"Just past dawn," Lysara told her flatly, her voice dull even to her own ears. "We should get moving."

Still bleary-eyed, Imoen eyed Lysara almost warily. "Hey, look… Are you alright? You seem-"

"I'm fine, thanks," Lysara interrupted. "We've a lot of ground to cover today, and we're not getting any closer just sitting here."

"What about food?" Imoen protested. "You've got to keep your strength up."

"We'll find food on the way; or, Lathander willing, we'll find a nice patch of edible berries. The dawn is here, and the Morninglord will provide. Come on, let's move."

Biting her lip, Imoen got up out of her makeshift bed. How was it that neither of them had had the sense to bring a bedroll, or Gorion, for that matter, who had claimed to have been a traveler in his youth? Muttering to herself, Lysara started hobbling towards the road.

"Hey!" Imoen hissed, trying not to shout as she caught her friend's arm. Lysara felt bile rising at the sensation; Imoen had grabbed the wrong arm. Withdrawing her hand, Imoen looked mortified. "Sorry! Look, take it-"

"We can't take it easy, Imoen," Lysara said, leaning on a tree and opening her blouse to show her shoulder to Imoen, peeling back the bandage. "We don't – or at least I don't - have the time. Khalid and Jaheria won't be at the inn for much longer and I won't survive for much longer. My shoulder is burning, Imoen. And it's red. This… this wound is infected. We've got to find help…"

"By the gods…" Imoen gasped. "Okay. Okay, I see your point. Let's move."

A short time of walking northward later, they heard the clatter of hooves coming up the road to the south. Lysara hadn't realized they'd made it to the edge of the road. The sound was some distance away, and unhurried, but both turned to look. What they saw was a rickety cart drawn by a shaggy mare. The cart was truly an unstable, old, beat up sham driven by a dwarf, accompanied by a man. As they caught sight of them, the dwarf leaned over to whisper something to the man, who glanced at them and nodded absentmindedly. Without waiting to talk to Lysara about it, Imoen stepped out into the cart's path.

"Good morning, ladies," the dwarf hailed them, reining the mare in. His voice sounded oddly smooth, unusual for one of the stout folk. The few Lysara had met had all had deeper, gravelly voices. And he was slightly too short for the average dwarf, not that Lysara had much to compare him to, with dwarves so rarely having visited Candlekeep. He had a mane of wild-looking black curls that went in so many different directions that it was hard to pin a length to it. But on closer inspection, he wasn't stocky enough to be a dwarf. He was just a heavily bearded Halfling. He wore simple leathers, in black, and had a bandolier stuffed with knives. "What brings you out to these parts a'foot?"

"I'd guess that they're in some sort of trouble," the human said in a stuttering voice that changed pitch with every second syllable. He had a wild, nervous look about him that made the halfling look positively civilized; the look in his eyes and constant twitching labeled him a madman. "Isn't that right, little women?"

"Road's a dangerous place for one woman travelling alone. Two might be safer in number, but you're still likely to be targeted by bandits, rogues, and near-do-wells," the short one put in before they could reply. "Excuse my friend here. Xzar took a blow to the head not a fortnight past… he still ain't quite right. Oh, and I'm Montaron."

"He's the sleaziest looking male I've ever seen," Imoen muttered low enough that Lysara could barely hear her. "And the other one is pure madness." "Might you be headed to the Friendly Arm Inn?" Imoen asked, raising her voice to the halfling. "We just barely escaped from a party of brigands that accosted us west of the crossroads. I… don't want to think about what they wanted with us. My friend was hurt, and I think her wound's infected."

"You sure this is a good idea?" Lysara asked, realizing that she was sweating cold sweat despite the morning heat. She didn't really see another choice, other than a painful trip to the grave, but she didn't like the looks of these two.

"Aye we're headed that way," Montaron replied. "My friend and I are… looking into some matters in this part of the sword coast. Our employers are rather put-off by the iron crisis 'round these parts, and all them non-union bandits are putting some serious kinks into some very powerful people's plans. We're heading up to the Arm to see what we can turn up there. My guess is you could use a ride at least that far?"

"I don't trust them Imoen," Lysara whispered cautiously. Something on one or both of their faces must have betrayed their thoughts. Or maybe the madman had sharper ears than he looked. "But-"

"Don't trust us?" Xzar yelled indignantly. "You hear that, Monty? The little strumpets think we're no good! Of all the… Let's just leave them here, Monty. No good comes from dealing with women. The little whores are never anything but trouble." The man lunged, trying to grab the reins out of the halfling's hands. Clearly the short one saw it coming, as he easily maneuvered them out of reach.

"Ease off, Xzar," Montaron said, planting a fist in the taller man's ribs. Oddly, Xzar just blinked and settled back down, seeming to have already forgotten his own outburst. "Now, lassies," the Halfling continued, returning his attention – most of it anyway – to Lysara and Imoen, "I can see as how you're cautious, and rightly so. I swear on me own mum that I'll let no harm come to you betwixt here and the Arms."

Lysara glanced at Imoen, who simply shrugged, leaving the decision to her. "How far is the inn?" she asked cautiously.

The short one looked up at the sky before answering. "Should be there by sunset riding, even if we just walk the horse. 'Course going a'foot in your state you'll be there sometime day after tomorrow, if ye make it that long."

Glancing at Imoen again, Lysara moved towards the cart. "Thank you. We will be happy to accept your offer."

But as she moved to climb into the seat, Xzar was set off again. "No, no, no!" the madman cried, pointing at the dusty cloth-covered bed of the cart. "No women in the front seat!"

Seriously debating with herself the wisdom of accepting help from these two, Lysara set her pack in the bed, and, forcing down a new wave of nausea, allowed Imoen to help her into the cart, where she laid herself down gratefully atop something hard.

"I'm fine," Lysara mouthed at Imoen in response to the other woman's worried look, not actually voicing a sound. Imoen poked her gently in the left shoulder, which caused a wave of nausea and fire to go off.

"No you're not," she replied quietly. "But you will be. Mask help me, you will be."

They both pretended to be watching the scenery flowing by them, but Lysara, at least, never took her attention fully away from the pair. Clearly, they were both much more dangerous than they pretended to be, but she couldn't make up her mind which of them was the worse of the pair.


	5. The Friendly Arm Inn

Chapter 4  
>The Friendly Arm Inn<p>Despite the misgivings that Lysara had over the pair, they by and large ignored the two women riding in their cart bed on the trip north, and stayed quiet themselves. Not that she would have taken it if they offered, but they didn't even offer them a water skin. Lysara didn't relax until they'd ridden up to the lowered drawbridge outside the Inn at sunset, where they were stopped by the guards; especially when she realized: the closer she got to the walls, and the further she drew away from the forest, a sense of loss rose within her. She was almost disappointed to be inside of walls again.<p>

"Welcome to the Friendly Arm," a short human hailed Montaron as he reined the cart to a halt. He was dressed in good silks, well cut black with gold trim. "All guests are required to relinquish their weapons for the duration of their stay. This includes books of magic and reagent pouches, and all magical scrolls and potions not of a curative nature."

Sighing, Montaron scratched the back of his head before thumbing his nose and leaning on his right knee. After waiting a moment, he nodded. "Alright then, sonny. You'll have my toys, but if I don't get 'em all back…"

"I assure you sir, nothing you carry is worth enough for any of us to steal," the pompous man replied, gesturing to summon four men bearing empty crates. The dozen or so guards who casually made their way out of the guard house seemed to reinforce his authority, if not his point. "Now, if I can just have your names, we can move this along…"

He took down Montaron's name first, and the short man surrendered his bandolier, two surprisingly long blades that he pulled from beneath his pauldrons, a short sword that was hidden down the back of his jerkin… Lysara stopped paying attention with that, but the male took at least five minutes to fully disarm himself and get his token.

Xzar simply handed over a book, and, after the customs officer cleared his throat, his belt of reagent pouches. The officer cleared his throat again, he handed over a small knife that had been stuffed up his sleeve. Then a satchel that clinked like filled bottles. And… it just kept coming, the madman trying to hold back his 'precious things' and the customs officer starting to look more and more impatient. Finally, once the customs man was convinced he had everything, he handed Xzar a small token.

The officer did a double-take when he caught sight of Lysara and Imoen, and his curiosity was written all over his face. He cleared his throat, catching himself and putting a bland face back on. "My ladies, if you would hand over all of the items I've described, and then vacate the cart for inspection?"

Lysara slipped down, somewhat unsteady but she managed to stay upright under her own power. She was a little sore from the uncomfortable cart that she'd been in for most of the day. Reluctantly, she gave her name, softly, so that the Halfling and the madman wouldn't hear, and handed over her bow, then took off her sword belt and handed the whole thing over.

"Just the blades would have done, madam. I can see you don't have any arrows, or so much as a quiver."

"You said all weapons… besides, that bow doesn't need arrows. But I warn you, its power is tied to my bloodline. Trying to use it without being my blood-kin is a bad idea. And the same is true of the blades."

She'd made that up, but it fit with what little Gorion had shared about the artifacts before he died. The man looked skeptical, and tried to draw the bow back experimentally. He jerked as though he'd been clubbed, and dropped it, letting out a loud noise as he looked at his hand, red with a blister. He quickly picked it up again, but only to tie a numbered tag to it and hand it over to the servant carrying her box. He didn't even try anything with her blades, but simply dropped them into the same crate and gave Lysara a token of her own.

When he turned to Imoen, she just spread her hands to show they were empty, and then put one on her hip, deliberately drawing his attention to the way it curved. She knew how to get a man to do as she wished, most of the time. "I'm not armed…" she said innocently, her free hand moving her satchel behind her back. Apart from some spare clothes, all it held was the book Elminster had given her and their meager travel supplies. But she was clearly not the first woman to try that from the cool, level look he gave her before he cleared his throat again.

"I haven't even had a chance to read more than the index," she muttered unhappily, getting the cloth-wrapped book out and handing it over.

He opened it and blinked, flipping through several pages before he just handed it back. "I said books of magic, not history," he said, taking her satchel and poking through it before handing it back. "Funny, girl."

Imoen tried to look like this wasn't news to her, putting on one of her mischievous grins and just rewrapped the book before putting it back in her bag. Then the guards pulled back the cart's coverings, and started unloading it. Lysara and Imoen, seeing no reason to hang around, just went through the gate, completely unbothered by the guards, though both of their 'saviors' looked disgruntled as they slipped off.

The Friendly Arm Inn was akin to Candlekeep in that it was converted from an old fortress. Though the complex was much smaller, and the inn only four levels high. Apart from the main keep, there was only a stable, a barracks, and a small temple to Wuakeen. The two of them, Lysara once again leaning heavily on Imoen, made their way up the steps into the inn proper. "Shouldn't we go to the temple?" Imoen whispered.

"Not doing anything until I meet father's friends," Lysara whispered back. "Besides, Mister E says that this 'Jaheria' is a druid. She might be able to heal me without involving anyone we can't trust."

Lysara had expected another sleepy little inn like the one back home, with but a few patrons at any given time. Apparently it was dinner time though, because the large common room - which was most of the first floor in fact, and contained a large bar besides the dining area – was packed with customers. Almost all of the four-seated circular tables, and even the larger rectangular tables that she could see were taken to the last seat. Waitresses darted through the crowd, platters holding food and drink held high overhead as they danced to get through.

"Evening loves," a man in a near-identical coat to the customs officer's greeted them as they entered. "Come at a bad time I'm afraid. Meal time is always packed. We've got some places, but this couple just grabbed the last table. Maybe they'll let you share if you ask?" Without waiting for a response, he pointed vaguely through the milling crowd and was gone an instant later.

"Wait!" Lysara called, but he was already gone, talking to some people at yet another table and jotting down what they were saying. With no other choice, Lysara wrapped her arm tighter around Imoen's shoulders and started trying to get through.

"You are most welcome to sit with us, if you wish," a male voice said when they were passing a seemingly packed table. But the man wasn't sitting. Head and shoulders taller than either of them, the man wore plate mail head to toe, with a winged helmet covering his face. "My wife and I are waiting for some friends of ours, but you seem to have need of getting off your feet." He gestured towards the door to what could only have been a private dining room. A woman leaned against the frame, blocking any attempt to enter simply by standing there and glaring at anyone trying to get past her. She had the same look of the woman that Elminster had described – at least, her hair, eyes, height, attitude and attire seemed to match - and a man who never showed his face could have been Khalid… or someone else.

"We'd be delighted to join you," Imoen said before Lysara could make up her mind. And she found herself swept along into an empty room. It was largely dominated by a very large dining table, and a roaring fireplace at either end. The woman shut the door the moment her companion stepped in.

"Sit down," she told them, her voice a no-nonsense, rustic flow of words. It was an unnecessary command, as Imoen was already lowering Lysara into a chair. "Where is your father, child? We expected the two of you, but not this girl as well. He is not with you? And… you're wounded."

Lysara settled down into the chair, just staring at this strange woman who apparently felt that she could give her orders. The man cleared his throat. "Forgive my wife's manner," he said quietly, his voice coming through the breathing holes in his helmet rather thinly. "She is not accustomed to being indoors for so long-"

"I can speak for myself, Khalid," the woman, presumably Jaheria, snapped. "Don't you understand what this means, them showing up alone? And Lysara hurt?" She took a deep breath, visibly forcing herself to calm down. Turning back to Lysara, she looked grim now, rather than impatient. "Gorion knew exactly where to look for us, you see. And I know very well he would not let you out of his sight on a trip such as this. You have our condolences."

"How do you know who I am?" Lysara asked calmly, her tone flat.

"Strange, Gorion never described you as being so rude. Yet suffice it to say that I am quite certain of you, child. But you… I'm not sure who you are," she turned to Imoen, turning her head a fraction.

"I'll introduce myself," Imoen said brightly, "When you give us your names."

Clearing his throat, the man, Khalid, spoke up. "I am Khalid, as my lovely wife, Jaheria has already told you. Forgive us, we are normally much more… civilized. Gorion was a good friend and we went through much with him. His tardiness already had us worried, as he was always so… punctual. News of his death has affected us most distressfully."

"I am sorry," Jaheria agreed. "Normally I have such a warm, sweet disposition." Khalid snorted a laugh behind his helmet at her sarcastic tone. Finally seeming to force herself to relax, she eyed Lysara's left arm again. "Now… what happened to your shoulder?"

Lysara considered lying, but as she opened her mouth, Imoen spoke up for her. "She was shot: quarrel through the left shoulder. When I found her I was scared witless that it had hit her heart. I did what I could for her, but I'm no healer. I'm just Imoen."

Jaheria moved around the table quickly, crouching next to Lysara and trying to open her blouse. "Let me see it. I may be able to do something for it," she said, rather sternly, or perhaps worriedly. It was rather difficult to tell, between her manner and her accent. Lysara was about to give in, most of her buttons undone, when the door opened, and then she was clutching it closed again as the waiters came in, laying out a small feast for them. Lysara's stomach rumbled loudly at the variety of smells wafting off the covered plates.

Jaheria took the seat next to Lysara, patiently watching the servants lay out cloth place mats for four people, setting out the silverware, pewter goblets and two full pitchers, either wine or tea, or perhaps one of each, several plates that gave off the aroma of roasted, spiced meats, and several bowls of various steamed vegetables and rice, and a plate of sweet rolls that was only covered by a cloth.

"Would miladies care to freshen up before dinner?" one of the servants asked, eyeing Lysara's and Imoen's disheveled hair and clothing askance, especially Lysara's blouse.

"Thank you, we will be fine," Jaheria replied before anyone else could speak up. Sensing the dismissal, the man, clearly in charge of the lot, motioned to the fellow servants, pausing while the others exited.

"If my lord, or my ladies require anything else, I shall be on hand personally, orders of the innkeeper," he said before bowing out and closing the door behind him.

"Lock it," Jaheria told her husband, and returned to trying to examine Lysara's shoulder before he could budge. Lysara was quite consciously aware of Khalid's presence while his wife stripped her to the waist. "Worry not, child," she said to Lysara, sounding kind for once. "My husband knows better than to even consider gazing on another woman, let alone a girl."

"I _am_ a _woman_," Lysara replied defensively, wincing at Jaheria's finger probing the sensitive, barely closed wound.

"How old is this?" she asked Imoen, who had been reaching for the rolls.

"Seven days, maybe eight," she replied, quickly withdrawing her hand and looking sheepish.

Jaheria kept poking at it, and looked behind Lysara's shoulder, finding the exit wound. She and Imoen discussed the bolt as though Lysara wasn't there, and Imoen answered directly, if somewhat shortly. She didn't seem to like talking about it. Imoen had remembered her lessons well. She said she had used the burning body of Gorion to heat the haft of one of the ogre's weapons. And while that was happening, she shoved the bolt the rest of the way through, since she didn't know if the head was barbed. It turned out it had been. Just yanking it out would have done much more damage. She then had to snap it off before she could pull the shaft out. And then she'd used that broken iron shaft to cauterize the wound, which had started pumping blood out as soon as the shaft was clear.

"Crude," Jaheria commented, "But it kept her alive. If the wound was as grave as you describe, she would have died otherwise." Closing her eyes, she muttered a soft spell, and surprisingly, an ache she hadn't even realized was there went away and that damnable itch and burn faded, though a sudden sense of fatigue settle in. "You require a few days' rest. I have done what I can to help the hole knit faster, and helped your body purge the infection. Be cautious with that arm. You will not be able to use it to full extent for a tenday at least. But come, your stomach is empty and I've kept you from this excellent meal for too long now."

"Finally, some real food!" Lysara exclaimed, trying to fill her plate as quickly as she could without being hasty enough to be rude while trying to simultaneously do her buttons back up. Now that the burning in her shoulder seemed to be lessening, the rumbling in her stomach was rearing up with a vengeance.

"Hey! Was that a crack on my cooking?" Imoen protested with mock indignity.

Imoen seemed to be the only one who could provoke Lysara into smiling, which she did briefly. "Ask me that again after I've had something to eat," she replied before sticking a slightly too-large slice of beef into her mouth. As soon as it was down it was followed by a quarter of a very tasty spiced potato.

"Ease yourself," Jaheria cautioned. She seemed to do most of the talking between the pair. "I realize your hunger, but gulping down your food will lead to more harm than good."

They ate quietly, Lysara and Imoen forcing themselves to pace their eating. Jaheria opened a small pouch that Lysara recognized as having been stuffed down her blouse, and choked on a mouthful of mulled wine.

"To whom do these belong?" she asked quietly, spilling a ruby as big as the third knuckle of her thumb, and a flawless emerald of the same size on to the table, followed by a copper ring set with a topaz, and a silver ring set with a diamond.

"To me," Lysara replied, at least a little defensively. Clearly Jaheria heard that in her tone.

"Let me rephrase then," the druid said, sounding a touch too patient. "To whom did these belong before you, and how did you come by them, that you would feel compelled to smuggle them in your clothes?"

Lysara started to invent a story on the spot, but the druid saw through it immediately, slamming her open palm into the table before the fifth word had left her mouth. "Enough!" she all but shouted. "Listen well, child. We are your father's friends, and we have been for a very long time. I cannot, I will not, believe that he would approve of or sanction his daughter stealing. We will give you what aid we can, and watch over you as much as is possible, as was his will should you survive his untimely passage. Believe me when I say we have nothing but the best intentions for you. But if we catch you thieving again out of spite or greed, I will not tolerate it. And that goes for both of you." She added the last with a pointed glance at Imoen, who returned her most innocent look. "I mean it. The occasional document or piece of distinctive jewelry in the course of an investigation, to be used for justice, is one thing. Stealing from someone for no good reason makes you no better than a petty thief."

Her tone had softened as she continued to speak, for all appearances a woman correcting a child's inappropriate behavior. Lysara just shrugged indifferently, still eating. Normally such a scolding would have jarred her to the bone, yet for the moment, all she did was eat, and drink. She hadn't had much wine before, and after her third cup Khalid took the pitcher away.

"Hey," she started to protest. She did like the taste.

"Don't try to fill that void you're feeling with liquor," he advised. "You'd be surprised at the number of people who follow their loved ones to the grave simply by drinking too much. Somehow, his plate was half-empty, but he still had his helmet on.

"I feel fine," Lysara lied. Oh, the alcohol still hadn't touched her, and she was starting to think that it wouldn't. It was her emotional state she lied over.

Both of the other women laid hands on her shoulders in what was supposed to be a comforting manner. But she didn't want to be comforted right then. She found their sympathy intrusive, and snapped out of her chair so fast that the nausea once again found her, though thankfully far less than it had been. "I think I'm ready for a rest in a proper bed now," she said snappishly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go see about a room."

"We've already arranged a place for all of us to sleep, chi-"

"Will you stop calling me 'child'?" Lysara interrupted Jaheria. "Where is this room?"

"You are the target of very powerful individuals," Jaheria said as if Lysara hadn't spoken. "We need to sit and plan, preferably without temper tantrums. Your enemy knows who you are, and has at least a vague idea where you are; while the reverse cannot be said truthfully. It would be unwise to continue using the name Gorion gave you, or to show-"

"I'll use and treasure everything he gave me." Lysara thought her tone quite clearly left no room for discussion on the matter. "Look… I'm tired, very tired. We can plan in the morning as well as tonight, can't we?"

"Listen," was all that the druid said.

"To what?" Lysara asked, hearing little that was remarkable.

"The walls of this room are thick, and it is warded against scrying – a little of my work – and on top of that, the music and bustle from the common room at dinner time will make a job of anyone trying to listen in more… conventionally. The next half hour or so that remains of that time is the best time to be planning, before my wards are discovered and removed. Please… Lysara. Sit down, and participate. I would rather see what you can do then simply tie you to apron strings and hand-walk you through the realms."

"Come on, Lys," Imoen put in quietly. "You're not doing Mister G. any credit acting like this."

Shame pierced the wall of numbness that the elf had been surrounded by, and she sagged, deflated and defeated, back into her chair. "I'm sorry. I don't know…" she didn't even finish her apology, just shaking her head.

"You are in pain," Khalid supplied.

"Those who lose, as you have lost, often strike out at whoever is at hand." Jaheria stated. "That is why I am being patient with you instead of turning you over my knee as Gorion obviously neglected to. But we will discuss this later. Now it is time to plan."

"Our main reason for coming to this region," the druid continued, "Is to investigate, and hopefully rectify, this iron shortage. The problem is two-fold.

"Firstly: Bandits are choking all the roads into Baldur's Gate, striking anyone or anything that is carrying raw iron, or anything made from iron. Somehow they seem to know the truth of who is carrying what, and are ignoring the convoys and caravans which aren't. They appear to be a very large, very well-organized group. Or perhaps it is multiple groups working in concert, but our associates believe it is a single group.

"The second problem is that locally mined ore is somehow… tainted. Blacksmiths aren't complaining of any difficulty or oddity in the forging process, yet anything forged with local iron is brittle, and breaks far more easily than should be possible." She waited for a moment before asking. "Your thoughts on the matter, Lysara?"

Rubbing her eyes, her mind was working to click everything together. "There's no way I can see that the two events aren't related," she said quietly. "The ore is clearly being tampered with, or else there's a conspiracy among every blacksmith in the region to produce shoddy equipment. The former is much more likely in my mind.

"This makes me think that either the bandits, or someone working for them, are sabotaging the ore somehow. Or that maybe both the bandits and the crew dealing with the local ore both answer to a third group. But I have absolutely nothing to substantiate that on, other than it's too much for coincidence to account for. As for the bandits, I'm assuming you or your sources have already checked the obvious, mundane solution of someone in the shipping offices leaking cargo lists. Perhaps they're slipping someone in with each caravan to check their cargo?"

"And you, child?" Jaheria asked, turning to Imoen. Lysara had to shove down a surge of annoyance at the druid once again calling them children, let alone asking for her thoughts and then not even responding to them.

Imoen surprised them all by simply ignoring Jaheria and continuing to eat. The druid cleared her throat, which made Imoen look at her. "Something in your throat?" the younger woman quipped before turning back to her plate and sipping her tea.

"Imoen… I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter at hand, if you please," Jaheria rephrased her request with a very small smirk.

Imoen paused for a moment, before once again turning to face the group. "Do you have anything on how the ore is being tainted?" she asked.

Jaheria looked surprised. "We have no knowledge of how, only that there is but one mine inside the bandits' perimeter that even can supply enough iron to outfit an army, and that anything made with it is as I have already said." She leveled a very considering look at Imoen.

"Well, knowing what's wrong with it is the first step in figuring out how to undo it, or prevent it from being done in the first place. It's entirely possible that it's a simple matter of a vein of tainted iron has been tapped recently, but much more likely that it's being altered, either alchemically or magically. I'm assuming your 'associates' have checked for both though?" She put a very soft emphasis on the word associates, but by the way they both focused their attentions on her, she had hit on something. Both Khalid and Jaheria had gone post-straight, and both appeared to have forgotten Lysara was in the room. What it was that Imoen had hit on, Lysara couldn't guess just yet.

Jaheria rallied first, returning her face to something carefully neutral. "Several alchemists have studied the weakened iron products, as well as taking samples of the unprocessed ore to analyze. They've determined nothing," the druid answered. "And many scryers as well: Arcane, Divine, Natural… no one can tell."

"Well," Imoen said. "If whoever is doing it is avoiding local authorities, maybe a smaller group of… let's say 'independent investigators' could ferret something out. I take it you're planning on heading to Nashkel?"

"Very… very good, Imoen," Jaheria complemented her. She glanced at Lysara, who was quietly chewing a slice of lamb, and answered. "Yes, Nashkel is our destination, to do exactly as you've suggested. We do not belittle Gorion's murder, but-"

"But you've nowhere to go on that for now," Imoen finished. "But I – we – assume you'll help us with that matter if some kind of lead turns up." It was not a question, or a request. Lysara had to hurriedly swallow a mouthful of tea to avoid choking. They were in no position to bargain or make demands.

"Gorion was our friend," Khalid finally spoke, his plate mysteriously emptied. He sounded offended, and dangerous. "Of course we will follow up on leads into his death, but this iron shortage threatens the whole of the southern sword coast!"

Lysara was surprised at the outburst. But more so by the fact that he ignored Jaheria's attempts to quiet him. Apparently he did have a backbone.

"Enough, my love," Jaheria said firmly after he'd already stopped talking.

"How did he ever become a Harper?" Imoen offhandedly commented, reaching for one of the bowls of vegetables.

Both of them were apparently so annoyed with each other that they didn't even respond to Imoen's question. But Khalid spoiled it by starting to look in her direction before fixing his attention back on his wife. Coincidentally Lysara heard a soft thump from under the table just as he did. Lysara finally put it together herself. They were acquainted with Elminster, at least insofar as that he knew what they looked like. And from the way he'd spoken she thought it was more than a passing knowledge. And they were here specifically to save the Southern Sword Coast… with an apparently wide-spread network of 'associates'… She saw no fault in Imoen's deduction.

"Oh, by the way, if we're going to Nashkel, we happen to know of someone else who may be travelling in that direction," Lysara finally spoke up in an effort to break the tense silence. "I trust them about as far as I can toss this table, but more allies might be helpful in this… endeavor."

Jaheria turned back to Lysara. "We'll be staying here for several days yet. Perhaps we can speak to these… acquaintances of yours. Who are they, that you think they would be… useful?" There was no mistaking the pause at the end of the sentence.

"I didn't mean it like that," Lysara said defensively. "I don't like the idea of using people. I simply meant that more people means greater safety and a better chance at success."

"Unless one of those near you plans to plant a dagger in your back," Jaheria countered reasonably. "Now who are they?"

"A halfling with a lot of knives, and a human mage that I'm fairly sure is insane," Lysara supplied. "I thought that the Halfling was a dwarf at first-"

"Don't tell me… Montaron and Xzar?" Jaheria interrupted again.

Lysara blinked. "How did you…"

"We've… met," she answered before the question was fully out of Lysara's lips. "Avoid them if you can, child. We have not discounted the Zhentarim as the ones behind this plot. Didn't you realize? They are agents of the Black Network."

"They did say their 'associates' – or maybe it was 'employers' - were displeased with the shortage, now that I think about it," Lysara mused as she leaned back in her chair, drawing her left foot up so that it rested flat on her chair seat. "And that 'powerful people' were having to put their plans on hold until it was over."

Jaheria waved her hand dismissively. "I don't trust Zhents," she said. "And you should not either. Even if they are in earnest – and there's usually no way to tell until the dagger's in your back - it's still possible that the faction they serve doesn't know that the shortage is a sanctioned event, or their employer hopes that stopping this plan would elevate them in comparison to another. The inner workings of the Black Keep are… difficult to see. Remember, a Zhent's first loyalty is to himself. Many serve out of fear of what their masters will do to them. The rest serve from mad ambition that most likely will never be met."

"In any event," Jaheria continued, glancing at the door. "It seems that the noise of the common room is somewhat diminished. I would hazard a guess that dinner is nearly over." She looked meaningfully at Lysara, who just returned her gaze in what she thought was a level manner. "You look to still be in shock," is what the druid said.

Lysara blinked, a brief flash of surprise welling up in her before being cut off by the numbness that should have been worrying her, but didn't. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Do not play at being stupid, Lysara. After sitting with you here for an hour I know that neither of you are that." That comment took in both her and Imoen before she returned her attention to the elf. "You are numb, yes? You feel absolutely nothing, no emotion except for short bursts, and you are not even worried about it, though you know you should be. Gorion was the only father, the only parent you've ever known, and now a large part of your life has been suddenly ripped away. There are two ways people your age deal with such loss.

"Firstly, you lash out at anyone and anything nearby, even if there is no one to blame. If there is, they sometimes fixate on that person, and more oft than not, devout what is left of their lives to revenge. Some call it justice to mask their intent even from themselves, but really, unless the sentence comes from a court of law, or at least a neutral arbiter it is merely vengeance.

"Secondly, such victims can try to fill that aching void in their hearts by pouring literally everything that's left of them into it. It renders them… blank… and sometimes they will just give up and die; by seeking death, or by taking stupid risks because they know it is likely to get them killed."

She fixed Lysara with a sharp look. "Not you, I think. You suffer from the blankness, but you will not die because of it. Still others go from one to the other." Taking Lysara's right hand, the druid placed it on Lysara's chest, directly over her heart. "Gorion is still right here, chi- Lysara. And he always will be so long as you remember him, and do his memory proud."

Khalid stood, and filled a goblet of wine for each of them, though he put significantly less in Lysara's than in the others'. They really didn't believe that she felt no ill-effect from the alcohol, which triggered a flash of irritation. She stood smoothly, letting her grace bring her to her feet, and was relieved that there was no accompanying jolt of nausea. Each of them took their glasses in hand, but didn't raise them yet.

Khalid went first. "Gorion was as good a friend as any I've ever known," he said, raising his glass. "He will be missed by all of us here, and so many more elsewhere."

"To Gorion," Jaheria said, raising her own. "At least as good a father as he was a friend. The evidence stands here before us." And she repeated Khalid's second line.

"Mister G." Imoen chimed in, raising her own. "I didn't know him as well as some, but he was always kind and patient, even with a little scamp like me." She, too, added a copy of Khalid's line.

"My father," Lysara said, a lump forming in her throat. "The last thing he told me from father to daughter… was that he was proud of me. He…" She shut her eyes, her glass wavering slightly before she steadied herself. "I will miss him greatly." There were no tears in her eyes, nor any threatening to form.

They drank as one, and Lysara didn't even let herself taste the wine, swallowing it down quickly. Imoen put her in a tight hug after the lament was over. She just wouldn't let go until Lysara hugged her back. Even Jaheria put a hand on her shoulder. "Tears will come, Lysara," the older woman told her. "In time, they will. Do not run from them. Do not shun them. Each one shed by you is a testament to what you felt for your father. But come. I know not of you, but I would welcome a hot bath and a warm bed just now."

Indeed it was welcome. Knots and sores simply seemed to melt away in the hot water. It felt glorious. Lysara luxuriated in the water that maids brought, and most likely would have just let herself soak there all night if Imoen hadn't insisted on them both drying off when she was done with her hair. She even let Lysara do it herself.

She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.


	6. Revelation

Chapter 5  
>Revelation<p>Lysara had dreams, the same as everyone who slept, though rarely. Perhaps that was odd for an elf, but after all she had been raised by humans, and slept, rather than meditating Reverie, as elves usually did. Oh she knew about the meditation, but no one had ever taught her how to slip in and out of it, so she didn't. The ninth night of her stay at the Friendly Arm, the only dream she could remember was vivid indeed.<p>

Here she was again, reliving in her mind's eye the tragic time that had forced her to flee Candlekeep. As soon as Winthrop was out of sight, Lysara crept up the steps to the second floor. After quickly checking three of the doors, she found what she was looking for: a contentedly snoring Lord Romsy. She crept into his room, making no sound a sleeping human would ever perceive – yet something was different here than it was in her memory, though she couldn't put her finger on what – and looked around. Aside from the inn's minimal accommodations, the only thing that may have belonged to Romsy was a wooden chest with a tough looking lock on it. It was an odd feeling that she couldn't identify. Dread would have been the closest approximation she could name. And something was missing…

No question about it, Imoen was the better lock-pick. It took Lysara almost a minute to spring the lock, all the while casting nervous glances between Romsy's prone form and the cracked-open door. She sifted through an assortment of clothing, cloaks, shoes and boots – being very careful to leave them approximately where she found them – and a few weapons. Those certainly hadn't been in Romsey's chest when she'd robbed him, and she nearly gagged when she saw the red fluid coating that one dagger. That should have sent her screaming from the room, but it didn't. At last she came to the 'something interesting' that she remembered: a jewelry box.

After a brief inspection for traps, she got the box open. By now she was running out of time; Winthrop would be coming back from the cellar any moment. She started to pick out three pieces of jewelry; a gold necklace and ring, and another ring that glowed with a faint magical aura, and two gems, a star sapphire and a pearl. None had any kind of distinctive symbol on them, or were easily identifiable in any real way. But she noticed something unnerving and terrifying. As she picked up these items to stow them, all the jewels turned into solid black spheres that reflected no light, like gaps in reality leading into the void.

At that exact second, Lord Romsy sat up in bed, but it was not the Aton Romsy who she had loathed so. This Romsy had clearly been dead for some time. His rotting face turned in her direction and she forced herself to suppress a scream as he pulled another dagger from his chest, dripping with his own blood. His eyes, like the gems, were whole black spheres that reflected no light, lacking whites; just as the raven had so many years ago. Dropping the valuables, she fled out the room and down the stairs. Just as before, Winthrop came out of the storeroom bearing a bottle, though sooner than he should have. This time, however, he looked as dead as Romsy. His skin was a pale gray, with patches of it simply missing or hanging loose. A dagger line lay open under his chin, blood soaking down the front of the portly man's tunic, and his eyes too were exactly like the raven's.

She knew it couldn't be real. This couldn't be the truth. Her friends in Candlekeep couldn't be dead! The undeath surrounding her was as horrific for the people it had struck as it was for the simple fact that she was being surrounded by undead.

Winthrop broke the bottle against the doorjamb he had just walked through, sending more blood flying as the glass shattered and made to stab her with the broken end. She fled through the door, truly terrified at these inexplicable specters. She ran, following the same path she had that fateful night, toward the stables. This time, though, she heard the voices as she left the inn. Both were male, and in conversation.

"You're sure about this, Barl?" said the first voice.

"You saw the wench earlier. This is easy money, twenty-five gold and a little bit of fun for each of us and all we haveta do – there she goes."

Neither spoke again, but one stepped to block her path. So relieved was she that they were not undead, but real, living men, that she nearly forgot what they were about. She let him draw his knife first, then shot her sword out of its scabbard, disarming him on the first strike. Then came the _click-twang_ of a crossbow being fired, which she ducked. The bolt missed her and hit her would-be assassin directly in the heart. She kept on running, knowing her adversary would have no time to reload and fire again before she was around the corner and likely in sight of a Watcher. She just hoped that they didn't turn out to be walking dead either.

Then she was in the stables for no reason she could determine, which were quite deserted, except for a raven sitting on one of the horse gates. It was _the_ raven. The same one she had seen on the keep walls so long ago. The raven had eyes of purest black, without whites; they were just solid obsidian orbs. No, not obsidian… Obsidian reflected light and had streaks of color running through it. These were flat and dull, as the others' had been, the archetype for their eyes. Then she was spinning and landing unceremoniously on her backside, coming face to face with her worst nightmare.

All light beyond the stables was gone, except for a small spec of light that might have been coming from the keep itself. From this darkness strode the armored fiend who had slain her father. Instantly a fury unlike any she had ever known gripped her, and, drawing her weapons, charged the fiend.

Imoen was there between the two of them, her outstretched hand turning aside all the weapons involved. "Now is not the time to fight it," she told Lysara, completely ignoring the fiend's attempts to get past her. "He is too strong now, and you… are not ready. The only way to win is to deny it battle."

"Out of my way!" the fiend bellowed at Imoen, tickling Lysara's memory.

Lysara backed off, looking for a way to flee, and finding the door that led into the guard warrens. Forcing herself to calmness, she reached for it, Imoen still standing between her and her would-be killer. She'd just managed to exit the keep by the guardhouse exit when she heard a harsh, malevolet voice ring out from everywhere and nowhere at once. "You will learn," it said. It sounded familiar somehow. It wasn't the fiend's voice that spoke though… but something much… much worse.

[-]

Lysara jerked awake with a piercing scream of terror an hour before the sun rose. Jaheria was on her feet instantly, and even Imoen was shaken awake by the sound. She was still trying to catch her breath and get her bearings when Khalid flung the door open from outside, stepping in and looking around to see what the problem was. For an instant her terror-wrapped mind superimposed the Fiend's image over his still-there armor. Did the man sleep in the stuff? Her scream must have carried as well, because quite a few of the Inn's guards were practically on his heels.

"What goes on here?" the captain demanded as Imoen was still trying to calm Lysara down, Jaheria was yelling about how childish she was being, and then the guards started pointing weapons at Khalid. Being the only man, armored at that, in a room full of women in their bedclothes did tend to breed suspicion.

"N-nightmare," Lysara stuttered, trying to explain and diffuse the situation before Jaheria could grab one of those guard's weapons and skewer him with it for directing it at her husband. "For _that_ you woke up the whole bloody inn?" the nondescript captain said disgustedly. "You're sure it wasn't something to do with this…"

"I suggest you do not finish that sentence, Captain," Jaheria said with barely suppressed fury, "lest I think that you are accusing my husband of being a scoundrel."

It was sorted out in short order, with many apologies on all sides. Jaheria rounded on the two of them as soon the others were gone and the door was closed. Khalid was leaning on it outside, making sure that they wouldn't be disturbed any time soon.

"I hadn't taken you for a screamer," Jaheria said with a surprising lack of wrath.

"I didn't even know you had dreams, Lys," Imoen put in softly. "Elves aren't supposed to and all. Mine haven't been all that nice lately, but nothing like what that must have been."

She took a moment before answering. "I don't… often… scream, or dream like that. And no, I don't want to talk about it. I'd rather not even think about it." She shuddered at the memory, already slipping away from her like water down the river. What was it that had tickled her memory at the end? She couldn't recall it anymore.

After a moment, Jaheria nodded. "As you will. I hope you at least managed some restful sleep. I am not much skilled in healing, and what Sylvanus allows me is draining on my body as well as yours. Let us see your wound."

"Didn't you already heal me?" Lysara asked, puzzled.

"I am not a priestess, child. The powers I employ do not simply mend wounds. By Sylvanus' grace, she allows me to draw on my own strength, as well as those I am tending, to accelerate the body's own ability to mend itself. The faster I accelerate it in one burst, the more likely things will go badly for the both of us."

After a quick examination, Jaheria cast another healing spell on Lysara's wound, a tingling not unlike the numbing poison spreading through the whole of the limb for a moment before fading. She gave the shoulder an experimental rotation, feeling only mild discomfort, and nodded gratefully, reaching for her daily wear.

"Take it easy for today. Eat an extra portion at breakfast and try not to overexert. Your muscles have finished healing, but they need to solidify their connections before you will be able to fight at full effectiveness."

"I've been taking it easy for most of the last tenday," Lysara objected.

"Getting restless?" Jaheria asked as she smirked. "Get dressed. I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to run some laps. Just keep a low profile."

She dressed conservatively in plain breeches and a high-necked blouse with long sleeves, finishing by stomping into the boots that Imoen had given her. Looking in the mirror, she just looked… common, if uncommonly pretty. She'd never thought of herself as anything overly special where her looks were concerned, even if Gorion and Imoen both said they'd looked out for her because they both thought she was beautiful. She bit her lip as she walked out of the room, leaving Imoen with her nose glued to the pages of Elminster's tome.

"Tell me, child," she heard Jaheria say to Imoen as she was leaving. She couldn't help it; she paused just outside the door to listen. "Is she behaving… normally? For her, I mean."

Imoen's voice, muffled by the wood sounded almost absent-minded. "If you want to know about Lysara, ask Lysara."

"Child, Imoen. Her behavior troubles me-"

"You're not her mother, nor mine. I've never talked about her behind her back before, except to praise her charms to a boy she was interested in, and I don't intend to start now."

"You and she are very close, aren't you?"

"She's my sister."

Lysara wished she could have seen the look on Jaheria's face in that stunned silence. But after a few seconds, she started to move away, giving a start when she saw Khalid watching her from the stairwell railing.

"We really do have the… best intentions for you and Im… her," the quiet man said. "Gor-" Looking at the stairs over his shoulder, he corrected himself. "Your father was a dearer friend to us than you know, though not as dear to us as Imoen obviously is to you. Tell, me… is she truly the care-free spirit that Gorion wrote of? She seemed rather serious last eve."

Shrugging, Lysara set foot on the top stair before pausing to answer. "If you want to know about Imoen, ask Imoen," she said softly. Predictably, Khalid moved to follow her. She didn't ask, he would have most likely just denied it, or said he was doing it because there was a pair of zhents somewhere in the Inn, but she knew he was shadowing her, if not the real why of it. She heard all the metal about him rattling as he climbed down behind her.

"You're my bodyguard for the day?" she asked without looking back at him. She heard him nearly stumble and swear under his breath, and added another point in her mind for who had the brains in that relationship.

"Jaheria and I… well, we know someone's-"

"Quiet," Lysara hissed as a couple of lollygagging servants came into view near the foot of the stairs. Jaheria should give her husband a lesson or two on 'keeping a low profile.' "I'm going for a run. The healer said it wouldn't aggravate my illness at this point."

Talk of illness usually sent rumors flying, and made anyone who didn't have to be near you scatter when they saw you coming; which is why she said it to him when she knew there were servants nearby, all the while turned towards him as if she hadn't seen them. It was a ploy that she herself had fallen for once. As it was, the two they were passing jumped as if she'd flashed a dagger, and retreated to the far end of the hall.

They made their way down to the common room, Lysara ordering her usual breakfast: a bowl of oatmeal with a cup of strong tea. Khalid didn't have anything. He just watched her, and the common room while she ate.

"Oh, hello again, pretty little woman," the stuttering voice of Xzar said from behind her. Khalid almost jumped out of his chair, but the madman ignored him.

"Pretty now, am I?" she asked, turning to him. Oddly, he looked to be almost well groomed, and clean.

"Of course," he said quickly. "Surely men have commented on your obvious beauty and charm before now, haven't they?"

Lysara gestured behind her back at Khalid, trying to get him to be patient. If she'd had any lingering doubts into the mage's sanity, they were dispelled when he started trying to charm her.

"Not often, no," she replied, faking a blush and pretending to try and hide her face. She was curious what he wanted, and figured that feeding him what he expected to see was the best way to get him to admit it.

"Oh, that is a pity. I shall have to remedy that then, oh elven lady fair, of the chestnut hair…"

Khalid snorted behind her. If that was the extent of his woman-wooing abilities, Lysara certainly saw why he thought members her sex was nothing but trouble. Then again, he _was_ insane. Maybe he'd already forgotten having said that.

"They tell me you've taken ill, oh what a shame. Monty and I are heading to Nashkel tomorrow. Perhaps you'd care to accompany us?"

"I don't think so," she said flat-out.

"Oh, but you'd be such a valuable travelling companion!" he declared, eyes darting around again. "And Monty and I would keep you entertained every step of the way."

"Xzar… what do you want?" she asked flat-out.

"Want? Why nothing…"

"Ok, that's enough," Khalid said, standing up and moving between them.

"Who asked you, over-armored idiot?" Xzar demanded. "Can't you see the lady and I are having a private chat?"

"I'm not interested in anything you have to say, Xzar. Leave me alone, and that goes for Montaron as well since I know he's somewhere near here."

"Oh, so you're not interested in who your real parents a-" the mage began, but suddenly Montaron was there next to him, driving his fist into Xzar's side even as Khalid was stepping towards him.

_That_ had her attention. "What did you do that for? I wasn't going to tell her, just entice her!" the mage protested.

"I've seen an eight-year-old do a better job of enticing women than you," the Halfling spat. Lysara used the distraction to slip away, Khalid following her and the pair seemingly oblivious to their departure as they continued to argue.

"What was that about my parents?" she asked, "My _real_ parents?"

"Likely just nonsense to entice you into coming with them," Khalid answered. "Never trust their ilk, Lysara. It's obvious they're interested in you in some fashion, but it's just as clear that you won't like it when you discover why. That's what they do."

He watched her, and the exercise grounds while she warmed up, refusing to say a word when she asked him a question. He watched her, running a pace behind while she ran. How in the world he managed to equal her speed while encumbered by full plate mail was beyond her. But she had to stop long before she normally would have, and long before he did. She was getting out of shape from all this 'recovery.'

The barracks practice ring, where guests met with wooden swords under the guards' watchful eye was her next stop. "You're sure this is wise?" Khalid asked as she started in that direction. The man should have been seriously annoying her, but she just didn't care. "Jaheria said that you needed to take it easy for a day or two yet."

"That's I'm only going to do a short workout with wooden weapons. Well, that and they have my blades locked away in some cabinet."

Without waiting for, or listening to, his continued protests, she picked up a solid oak replica of a standard short sword, and a foot-long stick meant to represent a dagger. Here she really was slow and careful; paying a great deal of attention to her left shoulder, but otherwise emptying her thoughts. Each stroke that brought neither pain, nor nausea emboldened her, and soon she was dancing the blades as Jarl had taught her.

Her fighting discipline was divided into three broad categories: Movement, Form, and Dance. The forms that she worked each day were simple groups of movements, for exercise purposes, or to be used in specific situations. She _thought_ that Jarl had taught all of them to her, but one of his favorite sayings had been 'there's always something more to learn.' Another was 'take it, and make it yours.' She had no idea what he meant by that one.

Her Dances were far more complex and adaptive, and she had only mastered one of the nine to her mentor's satisfaction, though she was familiar with them all. Rationally, she didn't think it wise to reveal her best moves before a set of slack-jawed strangers – every guard in the barracks, and guest out for exercise had eyes on her as she practiced – but the restlessness Jaheria had so accurately accused her of having had very little to do with rationality.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, her body had its limits in its current state. After working several Forms, she tried the First Dance. But apparently the stress on her shoulder was too great just yet. A sharp spike of pain in her left arm made her stop after the third step in her Dance with a cry as she dropped the faux weapon. She suddenly realized that she was sweating, and profusely. A glance at the sun's position told her that she'd been exercising for nearly three hours. It was past time to go back in and find some other use for her pent-up energy. Maybe she could try to pry a few answers out of Jaheria.

"This by you is _light_ exercise?" Khalid asked as he fell in step with her. She was trying to mop sweat out of her face with her handkerchief until one of the guards tossed her a clean towel. She smiled gratefully at him, and for some reason the oaf blushed. Just to be on the safe side, she handed that towel to a maid to be laundered instead of giving it back. Even Candlekeep had had its share of perverts. "I'd hate to see what you'd consider to be a real workout."

Lysara shrugged, carefully as they moved back inside. "I haven't had the chance to really work out in almost a month," she replied, exaggerating the time for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. "How do you move so nimbly in…" she trailed off as she poked him, and then poked him again. Her finger passed through his armor and she felt fabric and hard muscle beneath. "What the…"

"A few of years ago, a neophyte sorcerer put a glamor on me. It makes me look and sound as if I'm wearing full plate _and_ chain no matter what I'm wearing or not," Khalid explained as they took to the stairs. "Even the most skilled mage that we're acquainted with can't stop it from reappearing even if it's dispelled."

She held her tongue, not asking the obvious questions and filing them away for later. There were too many ears about to be discussing Harper matters, if he was willing to answer at all.

"Feeling better?" Jaheria asked when they got back to their room. She was doing something with a leather jerkin. But she had her back to Lysara so she couldn't quite see what.

"Worlds better," she said mechanically. Khalid had once again taken position outside the door and Imoen didn't appear to have moved beyond pulling her legs up to prop that book of magic up where she could read it better. Lysara looked in her pack, hunting for a new blouse but found it empty.

"I had your clothes taken to be laundered. Most of them were filthy," Jaheria informed her absently. "They'll be back within the hour." Picking up a garment out of her own bag, she tossed it over to Lysara. "We look to be of a size. Borrow one of mine if you wish."

It was clean wool, of somewhat better quality than she was used to wearing. But she changed into it gratefully. She hated sitting in her own sweat. Although Jaheria's blouse was a bit loose across the chest and an inch longer in the arm, it fit her well enough. "Here," Jaheria added, presenting Lysara with the jerkin she'd been working on. "For your protection."

"So when do we leave?" Lysara asked as she slipped into the leather and started lacing it up to try it on. "I don't think settling down in one spot for long is a good idea until I've at least figured out who is trying to kill me."

"Plan to guard your tongue, child," Jaheria replied worriedly, glancing about as though she expected spies to be hiding behind the drapes. Imoen closed her book and directed a level stare at the druid. "Settling down is out of the question. Khalid and I came to see to this iron shortage, and you agreed to assist us in that endeavor. Or did you have other ideas, child?"

"Oh you know, pick up a handsome knight here at the Inn, get married, have kids, wait for someone to show up and butcher me," she told the druid sarcastically. "What about the people who are trying to kill me?"

"We don't have any leads in that direction," Jaheria said carefully, ignoring the jibe. "As we look into this we'll also be – discreetly – trying to find information on your assailants. Of course, it would be helpful if you would describe them."

Lysara shook her head. "It… it was dark," she said quietly, going on to describe what she could remember of the fiend. As an afterthought, she added in the figure that had been no bigger than herself. But she hadn't even seen if that figure was man or woman. Hells, it could have been an illithid for all that she'd seen.

Jaheria sat quietly after she was finished, but Imoen spoke. "Well, how many men can be out there who're that big?" she asked. "His size alone would make him kind of distinctive."

"Magic can be employed to reduce or enlarge a person's size. His real appearance may be very different," Jaheria pointed out.

"He was shrugging off father's magic. I don't think you can be picky when you're shielding yourself from the arcane," Lysara said. "But I know one way or the other that I'd recognize his voice if I ever heard it again. I just wish I could either shake this feeling that I'd heard it before that encounter, or figure out where and when."

A knock interrupted their conversation, not that any of the three women were saying much after Lysara's last statement. "Enter," all three of them said together, making Imoen giggle. Jaheria even cracked a small smile. It was Khalid, followed by a round faced, and round-bellied woman carrying Lysara's neatly-folded laundry. She set it down and left without a word, never taking eyes off of Lysara. It made her skin crawl and her ears tingle.

Khalid and Jaheria noticed, and so did Imoen. After poking his head out the door and closing it, he turned to the group. "Tomorrow may be too late," he said. "At least two people have walked by six times since I've been standing out there."

Jaheria nodded, her face serious. "They know you're here," she said to Lysara. "They may even have dispatched a notice of your location to the enemy. If we were outside already I could mask your presence. But I fear that taking that course now would merely paint a target on your back. Fortunate then that you have that cloak."

"My cloak?" Lysara asked, mystified.

"You don't know? That is a ranger cloak, made in Myth Drannor before its fall unless I miss my guess. It blends into its environment, making it very difficult to see the person wearing it, though it won't blend into another person or an object. Once we're outside it will serve you well."

"Father didn't… have a chance to explain it to me," she replied softly.

"There is little time for talk. None, in truth. We need to find a way to sneak you down to the courtyard, and get out of here."

"I… I think I can help," Imoen said, and opened her book, studying the index for a moment before flipping to a page ahead of where she had been. "There are several spells of invisibility in here… I was studying one of them this morning."

"How did you get that past the customs guard?" Khalid asked, sounding puzzled.

"No idea. He looked at it and told me that history books were allowed through. Anyway, I need some glass dust, or very fine sand." Looking around for a moment, she picked up a glass and hurled it at the floor without hesitation, grinding her boot heel into the pile of glass that it made. "I'll apologize for this later."

"What must be done, can be done," Lysara said.

"One of Gorion's favorite sayings," Jaheria said with a nod. Imoen had ground some glass shards into a handful of powder that she started whispering over as Lysara hurriedly put her clothes back in her satchel. Even as she had pinned her cloak in place and drawn the hood, picking up her bag in the same motion, Imoen stood on the tips of her toes to sprinkle the dust on Lysara's head. It settled down without a fuss, clinging to her cloak. Imoen gasped, but Lysara could see no difference.

"Sorry! " she apologized, snapping the book shut and putting it in her own bag. "I'm new at this..."

"What?" Lysara asked.

"You still have a shadow," Jaheria observed, moving next to her. "Yet if you walk in someone else's, the overlap will still hide you. How long will that spell hold?"

"Umm, good question. The description says until she gets wet, tries to harm someone, or three hours. But if I bungled that too…"

"It will have to do, child," Jaheria cut in before turning to look at a point somewhere to Lysara's left. "Let us move quickly and hope for the best. Lysara, you will be shadowing Khalid. He is large enough that his shadow will eclipse your own. To all appearances, he will be going down in advance getting the horses ready so that we can depart quickly. Give him the token for your weapons. I'll go down with Imoen a few minutes later."

Khalid held out his hand, and, to everyone else's eyes, the requested token simply appeared in it. "Go, quickly now," Jaheria said. "The three of us cannot go down at once or it will draw eyes to this room."

Even though she knew she would make no noise, she was supposed to be shadowing the man. So Lysara timed her steps precisely with his, keeping her hands on his back to let him know that she was still there. One floor down they passed a large group of servants, mixed with two people wearing guard uniforms, and they all had daggers.

She steadied herself, trying to make her breathing even so as not to betray the act. What if she moved wrong… or they noticed the shadow cast from the sconce on the far side of the hall from where Khalid was walking? All she could do was clear her mind as she did during practice, and keep moving one step at the time.

She didn't think she'd ever been so relieved as when she crossed the threshold to the inn's exterior. At this hour the grounds were largely deserted. Khalid waited for the five horses they'd brought to be saddled, one of them with a lot of extra baggage, and the whole line of them led to the gate house.

It wasn't that she didn't trust Imoen. She did, with her life. But as Imoen herself had said, she was new at the spell-casting business. Leaning up to whisper in Khalid's ear once they were in the shadows of the portcullis, she said, "I'm going on. I'll hide along the road south of here."

Khalid nodded, patting one of the horse's flanks whispering, "Good girl." She hoped that meant he had heard her. But he gave no reaction when her touch slipped away from him. She ran, flitting from shadow to shadow and hoping that Imoen's spell hadn't already given out. Eventually she settled in a hollow beneath a hill, deep in shadows to hide her own and with her cloak pulled tightly around her in case the spell had faded and sincerely wishing she had a weapon.

As if on cue, a weight settled around her hips, and she was astonished to find her sword belt resting there, complete with blades. Magical weapons that returned to the sheath they were linked to were not unheard of, but they were very rare. This was the first time she'd heard of a belt returning to its owner's hips.

The road was completely silent for a long while. The sun was starting to sink down on the western horizon when she heard something. Hooves beat at the earth, up on the hill behind her, galloping hooves. She flattened herself in the small hollow, trying to make herself as small as possible and wrapping her cloak all the more tightly around her.

She recognized one of the toughs from the bridge the other day, and grimly loosened her blade in its sheath before settling down to be as still as she knew how.

"I still say there's no way she could've gotten past us at the bridge," one of the men complained. "Damned elf probably bled out in the woods."

"Rim says he spotted her running around the inn," another one, obviously the leader, said. "The elf he saw was 'taken ill' and favored her left shoulder, _and_matched the description. The note also said that she wasn't alone. Another girl was with her what matched the description o' that harlot."

"That's what you get for thinking with your nads," one of the two women put in. "Pretty face and a nice bottom and you'll follow it anywhere."

"Don't be jealous because you ain't got either," the other woman snickered.

"Enough chatter." The leader snapped. "Set up positions. She might have found more help at the inn. If you see either of those girls, assume the other one's nearby. And for Cyric's sake shut up. They're worth a lot more to the boss alive."

He just stayed right in the middle of the road, with three of his group going to one side, the other three to the second. One of the women had pulled a crossbow off her back and set up right in front of Lysara, the other woman and one of the men going up the hill, both with their own crossbows ready. They were obviously used to pulling ambushes. Lysara didn't know what was holding up her friends, but she hoped it took a little longer.

She had seven opponents… that she knew of. She didn't like the odds, but better that she was facing it then putting Imoen in danger. But she did so hate killing, even if she knew there was no way out of this without bloodshed. Out came her dagger, and she started to steel herself for what she had to do.

A wolf howled, and then another. Not so far off as it had sounded the last time she'd heard the sound, but close. It sounded very, very close. Before she could move, something large and hairy with four paws bounded down, jaws wrapping around the woman's throat as it bore her screaming to the ground. Two more screams from up above confirmed the deaths of the other two. The leader stared in disbelieve, pulling his crossbow and taking aim at the wolf that had just torn the woman's throat out.

Across the road, a bear with bloody jaws appeared, and the toughs' leader seemingly decided he'd seen enough. Or perhaps his horse simply panicked. It turned south and set off at a gallop with a cry of terror. The other horses bolted on cue, before a root somehow poked up through the paving stones, trying to wrap around rider-bearing horse's moving hooves. That one missed, but there were more where it came from, vines snaking up between the gaps in the stones snared the beast's legs, bringing it to a terrified halt and throwing the rider forward. Lysara winced as she watched him topple forward, his neck bending much too far back with a sickening crunch as his body went completely vertical before it fell back down, limp as a rag doll. The horse scrambled to its feet and bolted off after its companions.

Jaheria came into Lysara's view, calmly using a staff as a walking stick and completely ignoring the savage beasts that had just decimated their would-be assailants, even when a wolf came up to her. It didn't attack, it just stood there, sniffing at her shin with a wagging tail, before it turned and bolted away back the way it had come. The druid walked over to the toppled rider, poking his body with her staff and shaking her head when she looked down at his unmoving form.

"No answers from this one, unfortunately," she said before calling out. "Lysara? Are you near?"

She stayed still until she saw Khalid and Imoen riding down the road. They didn't appear to be in any hurry, but even from her vantage point, Imoen looked distinctly worried. "Lys?" she called. "C'mon, Lys. Please…"

Stepping carefully around the body and trying to keep her last meal down, she pulled her hood back, walking over to the mounted party. Imoen gave a squeal and dropped off her horse, rushing over to hug her friend in relief.

"Ah, there you are," Jaheria said calmly, still ignoring the carnage as she turned to face Lysara. "We would have been here hours ago save that they wouldn't allow anyone to leave. It seems your sword belt disappeared out of their storage locker and they insisted on searching the inn for it first." She eyed Lysara's belt, visible under her cloak, with a raised eyebrow.

"I swear I didn't take it," she said before she could think of anything else. "I just… I wished I had a weapon, and it appeared."

"Wishing for weapons, child?" Jaheria asked quietly.

"You would too if you were alone when you knew you were being hunted!" she protested.

"Tell me, girl. What do you think of what happened here?"

"I'm glad you came when you did. I didn't think I could have gotten myself out of this, especially without abandoning all of you to an ambush."

"Is that all?"

Sighing, she realized that the druid was trying to gauge her character, though the why of it escaped her. "It's horrible, alright? I'm having to concentrate on keeping my last meal in my stomach as we sit here speaking. Can we move on please?"

Jaheria stood there, staring at Lysara as though trying to figure out if she was sincere or not, before finally gesturing at a tawny mare with her bow strapped beneath the saddle. Imoen didn't budge.

"Do you think we _like_ the sight of death? What kind of people are you, to think that about us?" she demanded with a quiet rage. "What kind of people do you think we are?"

"I don't know what kind of girls you are," Jaheria snapped back, bringing her staff somewhat in front of her. It was a subtle move, but she was now in a defensive posture. "That is the point in asking questions such as these, no?"

"You claim you wish to help us, to help me," Lysara said, her voice started out even and her volume low, but she grew louder and more hysterical, her gestures more animated as she continued. "And you have just spared me from bloodying my hands, most likely saving my life in the process, for which I thank you. But all this death - the fact that I made it necessary - is on my conscience, a stain on my soul, regardless of who gave the order, or who did the killing. Do you think I like living with that? I hate the sight of blood! _I hate it!_ And it is ten times worse that I am to blame."

"Mount up, children," Jaheria ordered, though there was sorrow in her voice and she seemed to have relaxed a little. At least she no longer held her staff as if she expected to need it. "And Lysara… forgive me, please."

"Perhaps if you reveal why you don't trust me, I would," she said as she swung her leg over her saddle. Without awaiting a reply, she set her horse off south at a walk. Khalid and Jaheria lagged back on their horses with the packhorse, talking quietly. Imoen kept her mouth shut, and Lysara strained to hear.

"… should tell her…" Jaheria's voice drifted forward.

"…secret for a reason…"

"She seemed sincere, maybe she… handle it."

"… you react to hear…"

"It isn't our secret to keep."

"It's not ours to share, either."

Lysara had intentionally let her horse start to slow, deliberately trying to overhear their conversation, but they seemed to notice that her attention wasn't on the road and Jaheria just glared at her until she heeled her mare into a trot to catch up with Imoen.

"Any eavesdropping spells in that book of yours?" she asked quietly.

"No. At least, none that I've found," Imoen whispered back. "I don't trust 'em either, but nothing much I can do about it at the moment. Chased you off when you got in earshot?"

"Better them than that pair of nut jobs. There's something about them that I find myself liking, like they remind me of father… I think they really did know him. I think they really do have our best interests at heart."

"Weren't listening, were you? Jaheria was very careful when she said she had the 'best intentions _for_ you.' It's not the same thing at all, Lys." She glanced over her shoulder to check that the other pair were talking again. "They're acting like they're trying to decide whether you're a rabid dog or not. And I think they'll kill you without a second thought if they decide the wrong way."

"I thought I was growing jaded…" Lysara muttered.

"Oh, stop being like that. You know I'm scared out of my mind for you. Anyway, I don't trust them much."

"If they wanted me dead, they've had plenty of chances already."

"Like I said, they seem to be trying to decide if they should," Imoen said, keeping an eye behind them out of the corner of her eye. "They know something, I can smell it."

"Apparently they're-"

"Comfy?" Jaheria asked as she brought her horse even with theirs. Imoen jumped and yelped. Lysara just blinked. She hadn't noticed the druid closing the distance with them. "Night will be upon us soon. We've had a later start than we should have. Follow."

She turned her horse off the road, and they had little choice but to follow after her, down a trail that neither of them would have noticed if it hadn't been pointed out. She led them through a lot of twists and turns, through progressively deeper brush until there was no chance whatsoever of finding their way back to the road, and then through yet more of the same until they emerged in a small copse of trees. Only then did she call a halt.

"We will be safe here for the night. Only those who are one with the wilds can find their way to one of these secret places. I doubt you will find your way here again without a druid, or perhaps a ranger to guide you."

They settled down, without a fire, and Khalid passed out parcels from one of the bags on the pack horse. It was just bread, cheese, and salted meat that they ate before passing around the water skin.

"I apologize for earlier," Jaheria said, addressing both of the younger women. "There are… some things, which have been kept from you, Lysara. At least, I presume they have."

"Jaheria, my love, I thought we settled this," Khalid interrupted.

"Not quite, my Khalid," she replied gently. "It is something she _needs_ to know. You cannot win a battle that you do not even know you are fighting." She turned back to Lysara, her expression grave in the dim light. "Did Gorion… ever speak of your parentage?"

"I know that my mother's name was Alianna… and that she's dead. I know father blamed himself for her death, but not the why. He… he talked in his sleep some times," Lysara answered. "I know nothing at all about my birth-father beyond the fact that he's dead as well. Why do you ask?"

"You… are not an only child. Your father… has a great many of them, each that we know of by a different woman," Jaheria went on, seemingly indecisive. "For those of us that know, we must always be careful.

"Many of your brothers and sisters… revel in death; especially when they are the ones who cause it. It is a trait inherited from your father. You see, you are a Child of Bhaal, the dead god of Murder who foresaw his end…"

She trailed off at the look on Lysara's face. Numbly, Lysara recited the same prophecy that Romsey had been puzzling over. Imoen just looked thunderstruck.

"Imoen was correct, you see," Jaheria put in when she was finished. "We were deciding what sort of person you were. But you seem to be above your tainted blood-"

"I have to die," she said suddenly, and darkly.

Imoen slapped her, and didn't hold back either. It hurt. "Don't you ever dare say that again! Don't even think it!" she all but screamed in her best friend's face. "There's no way in the hells I'm going to let you die, Lys. There's gotta be a way around this."

"'Chaos shall be sewn in their passage,'" Lysara quotes again. "I don't want to cause chaos. I don't want to hurt anyone. But… Father… those two men who attacked me in Candlekeep… those people on the road. I'm causing death just by living!"

"Imoen is correct, child," Jaheria said, resting a comforting hand on her forearm. "While there is life, there is still hope."

"You're going to kill me," Lysara said to Jaheria. It was all too easy to ignore Khalid's presence.

"No, child. We are not," she replied. "In fact, we are going to do our best to protect you from death or serious harm."

"Why?"

"Because… you are a good person," the druid answered. "And because you are Gorion's daughter. He sacrificed his life for you, child. I would not see that sacrifice be in vain. I regret our thoughts earlier."

Rubbing her eyes, and her cheek, Lysara realized that Imoen once again had a protective arm around her. "What about my mother? Do you know anything of her?"

"Little. I only laid eyes upon her once, and our encounter at the time was… less than civilized. Gorion did not much speak of her after her passing. I know that she was a wood elf, though I'm not sure from what region. In his last letter, Gorion did mention how much like her you look, and I have to agree. That is the extent of my knowledge.

"But I am curious about how much your elven lineage is showing now that you are away from walls and roads, deep in the wild forest. Are you a woman of the city, or of nature?"

She was trying to change the subject, and Lysara was more than content to accommodate the attempt. "After Imoen saved me… I felt something I didn't recognize. And… I just couldn't help but sing."

"Sing?" Jaheria asked, sounding surprised.

"Lys is a very musical person," Imoen put in, apparently as determined to move away from the morose topic of a few sentences past as the rest of them were. Her voice was still cracking slightly, but otherwise steady. "Well, don't look at me like that. You are! You're always singing to yourself when you're working, or when you think no one can hear you at it. And that night in the forest… I've never heard anything so beautiful."

Jaheria actually smiled. It was a real, happy smile, mixed with relief. "You are strongly connected to nature, child; far more so than I would expect of one raised behind walls. We will discuss more upon the morrow." Sighing, she laid out their bedrolls for them. "Rest well, ladies. Know that we will watch, and protect you. You have my word."

Lysara didn't take to her bedroll, though. Instead she sat leaning against a tree and tried to look at the sky through the tangle of branches, seeing only patches of empty blackness through the few holes in the canopy. So she closed her eyes, and listened, and breathed. Letting her nose and ears sense the forest for her. She tasted the air, cleaner than in the keep, or the inn, if somewhat closer than on the road.

Every sound came through clearly: from the night birds' chirping, their feathers rustling, to the scratching of rodents' paws. A whoosh from somewhere nearby as a bird took flight, and she heard the soft thump of a paw as a large cat prowled nearby. Yet none of it caused her the slightest concern. It simply was. Perhaps they thought her to be asleep, because she heard Jaheria gasp as she sang once more. Just as before, she didn't have any idea where the words came from, or what they meant, only that they were words; put to a tune that she knew she didn't know. The only thing that she knew about it was that it wasn't the same song as before. When she opened her eyes again, Jaheria was watching her, but Imoen and Khalid were both fast asleep.

"You keep your tempo with the forest's heartbeat," the druid observed. "Tomorrow, we will discuss what you sang."

"Go to sleep," Lysara bade her. "I'll take the watch."

The druid hesitated, then nodded. Without another word, she curled up against her husband, resting her head on his chest and going to sleep in short order. Apparently he really was wearing armor now because her face was still visible when she did this.

Once again, Lysara was wide awake, left to the solitude of the wild and her thoughts. Tonight, she dwelled on herself. The child of an evil god, her life would doubtlessly be marked by that taint. Was it possible that she could overcome it? Could she be a person that Gorion would have approved of, a person that she herself would like? Was there a man out there who could love her as a woman despite her accursed lineage?

What of friends? She didn't doubt that Imoen would stay by her side until she sent her away or one of them died. But who would want to be near someone like her? These questions caused a weariness far greater than sleep could cure to seep into her.

And then, there was the simple fact that she didn't have a clue how to be an elf, what it truly meant to be elven. All these things and more weighed heavily on her mind as she sought to sort through her own thoughts.

Just short of the moon's zenith, she realized that she was crying.


	7. Guidance

Chapter 6

Guidance

Lsyara felt no fatigue. Her body felt as if she'd only just awakened from a good sleep, though she'd spent the night staring at the canopy of the forest, listening to the sounds of the nighttime woodland around her. It was strangely soothing as she sat there crying. Heeding Jaheira's advice, she embraced her tears, let them flow, holding nothing back. And yet the pain she was expecting, was quietly hoping for, still remained absent.

"Lathander, why can't I feel?" she whispered through her sobs. Quietly, she began to pray, for herself, for the redemption of her tainted blood; for Gorion's soul, though it would now be with Oghma; for Imoen and the denizens of Candlekeep, that they'd all somehow come to understand those deaths were not murder, but simple self-defense. She swore to herself, and to her god, that she would never murder. Any death she dealt would be to protect herself, someone she loved, or an innocent. "Please… help me feel," she beseeched her god.

And Lathander answered.

It felt like a warmth building just over her shoulder, as if the sun was rising behind her though dawn was still at least an hour away. It grew, warmer and hotter until she doubled over and pressed her face to the ground just to feel the cool earth against her cheek. And then the wall holding back her emotions snapped like a beaver dam trying to stand before a tsunami. Everything she'd been holding back from herself came crashing home, and her tears redoubled.

The warmth receded, but the wall remained gone. She bawled, thinking of her father, her real father, the man who had taught her right from wrong and given up so much to watch over her. And she thought of her sire, the distant, long-dead entity that completely repulsed her. She shoved thoughts of the latter away violently. Perhaps the armored fiend had been a servant of Cyric, Bhaal's successor; or of her sire Bhall; or even one of her brethren that Jaheira had mentioned; she didn't know and she didn't care. All she did know was that the brute had taken her father from her simply because he couldn't reach her.

She wanted to make him pay. Part of her wanted to revisit the pain he'd inflicted on Gorion a thousand fold. Part of her just wanted to make sure that he didn't have the opportunity to steal away some other young woman's daddy. She couldn't decide which part of her was greater, but the memory of Gorion's gentle smile made her realize that he wouldn't have wanted her to think of vengeance, so she tried her best to drive it from her mind.

It didn't go easily. The sun was coming up, the gloom around her brightening visibly when she finally managed to right herself. She found Jaheira sitting in front of her, cross legged, and Khalid sitting at his wife's side. Even Imoen was awake, leaning against a tree and watching her with a sympathetic smile.

"Feeling better?" the druid asked.

"Yes…" Lysara replied, smiling and wiping mud from her cheeks where tears had mixed with dirt before emitting a loud sniff. "I feel."

They all smiled. She even got the impression that Khalid was, though it was impossible to tell. They broke camp quickly, though she insisted on saying her morning prayer. By and large they hadn't put a camp down to begin with, which made the task easier. They rode quickly, returning to the main road and turning south. Jaheira seemed determined to make up for the time they'd spent laying about the inn.

"Tell me," Jaheira said when she was satisfied they were alone on the road. "How much do you know of your own heritage?"

"Apparently there's a king or some sort of long-removed nobility in my ancestry, on my mother's side," Lysara replied, "And a dead god on my father's."

"I was referring to your people, to your elven forefathers."

"Bits and pieces," she answered, "Enough to recognize items crafted by my people, and I know a bit of their written language and can speak a few sentences; but I know nothing about their customs or history. I don't even know what kind of wood elf I am."

"My guess, based on what Gorion told me of your mother, would be that she was from Suldanessalar, but I do not know for certain. It is just little things, a saying here, a quote there."

"You said you know something about my… singing?" Lysara asked.

"A little," the druid answered. "I was raised among druids, and a few of your kind were among those who cared for me as a child. Know you what that song was?"

"No. I haven't a clue."

"It is a salute to the sun and moon, a bit of nonsense about one of the old gods of the sun chasing Selûne, always trying to catch her, and she always slipping just out of his reach."

"Why now? I can understand… just from standing in the forest far from roads and buildings, I can feel it. But why is it so powerful, so often?"

"Your mother's blood sings in you – no pun intended - in the natural domain of her forebears. I cannot imagine that Gorion took you on trips very often?" Jaheira only waited for Lysara to shake her head before continuing. "I thought not. Perhaps it is occurring so frequently now because it was pent-up for all the years you've been kept behind walls. It is as good an explanation as any. I once knew a wood elf who worshipped Eilistraee. She never went indoors unless she absolutely had to. But one time, she and I, and our other companions of the moment got stuck underground for almost two tendays, near as we could reckon when we emerged. She spent five days straight singing without a break."

"Was it anything like…"

"She couldn't carry a tune at all. Worst sound we ever had to endure," Jaheira supplied, "I had to scratch my nails across a chalkboard to drown her out so that the others could get some sleep."

Lysara shuddered at the thought of such a cacophony, and then realized that the older woman was joking, and put on a smile while forcing a chuckle for politeness's sake.

"When we stop tonight I will have another look at that shoulder of yours. Khalid tells me you were having some pains yesterday morning."

"That's kind of you," Lysara replied. "It was just a twinge, really."

"And if you have a 'twinge' like that while we're fighting for our lives, it could develop into a split skull for everybody," Jaheira retorted sharply.

"I'm not arguing. You'll have your look."

The ride itself was uneventful for the rest of the day. They trotted the horses for a while, then walked them for a while, before trotting them again, never seeing or hearing another soul moving along the road. Lysara found this rather unnerving, since this was supposed to be a major passway between the southern and northern sections of the Sword Coast. Around noon, they passed a small cabin that Jaheira didn't even try to move around. Lysara could see from two hundred paces away that it was deserted, though the door was shut and nothing looked out of place. It just looked… old and unused. Perhaps an hour after nightfall, Jaheira led them off the road, following a small creek for a while.

"Things are really bad, aren't they?" Lysara asked while Jaheira cast another mending spell on her formerly wounded shoulder. There was just a small scar, barely visible, where the bolt had pierced her flesh, and it felt as if she'd never been hurt in the first place.

"You're fully healed," Jaheira replied.

"I was talking about things which are not me," Lysara countered, drawing Imoen's attention from that magic book she had taken to studying every time they stopped. "I didn't see anyone at all today besides us."

"Yes, child, things are bad, as you've said," the druid answered as Lysara re-laced her blouse.

"Even local trade in this section of the Sword Coast has been affected," Khalid supplied, his back to Lysara as he watched the darkened woods. "No one wants to venture a day's travel out of their home towns for fear they'll be taken by the bandits, or hobgoblins or gnolls. Many won't go an hour's ride away if they can help it."

"I thought the more monstrous races kept away from roads and towns," Lysara said.

"They usually do," Imoen supplied, joining the conversation. "But sometimes they're 'persuaded' to raid a settlement, or do a bit of banditry of their own. Their gods also demand a certain amount of bloodletting periodically."

"Learning a lot from your book, I see," Jaheira commented.

"Turns out the man who penned it knows a lot. I'm pretty sure you've met him. Anyway, how much longer until we reach Nashkel?"

"We'll swing around Bereghost to the east, then rejoin the road once we're clear of the farms. No more than twelve days if we can maintain a good pace."

"Why avoid Bereghost?" Lysara asked. The answer occurred to her just as Jaheira started speaking.

"For your sake," she said simply. "Assassins and bounty hunters are far from above trekking into the wilds to catch their prey, but they usually prefer to sight them in a town and make sure they're in the area before going through the trouble of running down every set of tracks they run across."

"I'm going to need spell components," Imoen said carefully.

"You can buy them in Nashkel," Jaheira replied. "or forage for them. We're not going near a town until we get there."

"I've already been doing that. I got a bit of sand from the creek bed, and several sticks with spiderwebbing on it, a few…"

"Spare me, please," the druid said, raising her hand. "One of the reasons I never studied the arcane was the disgusting list of things that a mage needs to carry around."

Lysara wondered just what it was that Jaheira, a druid, would find disgusting, but she kept that thought to herself. Weary from the day's travelling, they accepted their rations and let the matter drop. The food was far from the fare she was used to, but it kept her alive. "I don't suppose you have any soap in the supplies?" she asked when they'd finished eating.

"Of course," Jaheira replied, producing a bar from the pack horse's bags. "Enjoy your bath. I'll make sure Khalid doesn't peek on you, hmm?"

[-]

The soap Jaheira gave her had an herbal, almost earthy scent to it that reminded her quite pleasantly of the forest around them. And it got her clean, though she didn't really like bathing in cold water. She liked not bathing even less. The next few days were downright boring. Up before dawn, they'd have a portion of rations, then mount up - if the terrain allowed - and make their way in a consistently southerly direction. One brief rest at midday, which Lysara usually used to practice either a set of forms or one of her dances; and they were back in the saddle riding south. Jaheira had a knack for knowing where sheltered, secluded little cubbies in the woods were, though Lysara found herself wishing for a campfire. The nights were starting to turn cooler, though they were still far from cold.

"Absolutely not," the druid always said sternly whenever she or Imoen asked. "Fires draw unwanted attention, even this deep in the woods."

"So do horses," Imoen muttered rebelliously.

"The animals I can keep concealed. The light of a fire will draw the eyes of many different creatures, many of whom are less-than-friendly to our kinds." And that was always the end of the argument.

The seventh day, something happened. No sooner had she left her saddle than she heard the howl of a wolf. No sooner had she pulled her bow from its place strapped to her horse than she heard an answering howl, both of which sounded a lot closer than she would like. Jaheira tensed up instantly, bringing her staff to bear and trying to look everywhere at once.

"What's wrong?" Imoen asked. "Just send them packing-"

"I can't touch these wolves," Jaheira interrupted, looking progressively more nervous, and sounding almost scared. "There's no contact, no sense of them in the Balance. Just… rage, and a dead zone where the animals refuse to look. The moon, has anyone seen the moon?"

"I was watching it not long ago," Lysara answered, readying her bow. "It's full… werewolves then?"

Imoen bit off a curse and started chanting. With limited components on hand, she was rather limited in what she could do, but there were some tricks she could play with what she'd been picking up from the forest floor. She'd been practicing her spellwork every night since the Inn.

Khalid had his claymore out, held low in one hand while his other hand held a light crossbow, bolt already fitted and drawn back, and Jaheira's skin took on the texture of tree bark as she kept looking about. Imoen finished chanting and her skin turned to stone, though she could still move. She launched into another spell with barely a pause for breath, producing her small hand mirror that she used each morning before they got started.

"They're close now," Jaheira whispered as the horses whinnied nervously, stamping their hooves. "I'm sure they've got our scent."

Lysara had her back to the others as she scanned the trees for heat patterns that might have been bodies. For no real reason she could think of, she pulled her hood up, covering her ears – tingling yet again - and concealing her face in deep shadow.

"I had heard there was a pack in the region, but their territory is supposed to be miles east of here," the druid stated quietly. Lysara gasped and jumped as about a dozen copies of Imoen sprung into existence. Not just illusions either. They gave off heat as well, and felt solid when she touched one. That copy actually winked at her. Some of the others were crouching, with daggers or a bow, and leather armor, others wore robes like Elminster had worn and brandished a staff. They scattered into the tree line around their party and disappeared into the woods. A few seconds and another chant out of Imoen and she felt an incredible burst of energy coursing through her veins, and her hands started moving faster than she meant them to.

"That will do," Jaheira said before Imoen could start casting again. "Save your energy for the fight. Lysara, Khalid, make sure you alert us before they're upon us."

"Right," they said simultaneously.

A flicker of movement and a low growl came from the other side of a tree just past the perimeter. Lysara raised her bow, pulling back as that translucent blue arrow sprang into being again, sighting down the ethereal shaft at a very large heat source.

"There," she whispered.

"Take it out if you have a shot," the druid ordered. Out of sight, a werewolf yelped and barked.

Lysara needed no further incentive to shoot a monster. Her bow made a soft _twang_ that reverberated in the still air as her arrow arced towards the target. The beast dodged, and the tree her arrow struck gave off a little less heat to her eyes.

Making a soft 'tsk' of annoyance, she drew back again, almost reaching for a quiver she wasn't wearing reflexively. She aimed to the right of where the beast was moving, and let fly, striking it in the center of its chest. It shrieked, screaming an unholy sound that was cut off abruptly. And then its body stopped putting out heat at all. Apparently her bow fired frost arrows.

Khalid's crossbow clicked, and there was a second sound of pain, though much less significant, followed by the whooshing sound of his claymore cutting through the air. There was the oddest zipping sound, and a third beast shrieked, howling something that sounded almost like a warning. From the southwest another one screamed as a fireball went off, though Lysara was sure that Imoen was facing east. Apparently her copies had some of her skills as well.

An odd creaking to her right drew Lysara's attention, and she saw another two werewolves, one pinned by vines wrapping around its lower legs up to the knee and continuing to climb, and the other so totally entrapped by the embrace of a tree's limbs that it looked to be struggling to breathe. She turned forward, finding her arc apparently clear, and turned towards Khalid, drawing back again.

Before she could begin to sight on the creature he was fighting, yet another beast crashed into her, bearing her to the ground and knocking her bow from her grasp. There was little she could do except squeal and try to reach for her dagger, which she brought up as quickly as she could.

Her blade cut through the beast's flesh and the tattered remains of its clothes with equal ease. It howled, its jaws coming perilously close to her skin before it backed away, warded off by her blade mere inches from its muzzle. Hot, sticky liquid splashed over her, and she shut her mouth against the blood pouring from the man-beast. A set of five purple balls of light collided with its chest, sending it staggering even as she regained her feet, her other weapon in hand.

The forest behind her erupted in a flash of multicolored light, momentarily blinding her night sight, and her horizontal slash missed. The beast tried to swat her hand out of the way, but her dagger intercepted it, drawing blood and forcing it to back off again.

"How many more of you are there?" Lysara muttered, leading with a feinted dagger stab. Its claws almost bit her flesh as she recoiled, bringing her short sword down in a diagonal slash that opened its chest from left shoulder to right hip. It screamed and tried to back away, but she whipped her sword about, stepping forward and launching a backhanded slash that cleaved the brute's head from its shoulders.

She only spared the corpse enough attention to snap-kick it mid chest and make sure it fell away from her. Nothing she'd ever heard about werewolves suggested they could survive decapitation. Jaheira's magic had crushed her foes, and she was helping Imoen, immobilizing targets for her to finish off with arcane power. Khalid was fending off the claws and jaws of another, three bodies in front of him. He was fighting defensively and counterattacking ineffectively when he saw the chance. The beast was just too fast, since Imoen's haste spell had worn off. Lysara unceremoniously dropped her blades and retrieved her discarded bow, drawing back and aiming carefully, waiting for her chance.

The beast dropped under Khalid's slash, punching forward with two clawed fists and bashing him backward, sending the armored warrior tripping on a tree root. He tumbled backwards, out of her line of fire, and she let fly. Coming up on his feet, Khalid's body languages suggested surprise as he found his enemy already dead, a block of ice in werewolf shape. Neither of them stopped to complain though, but turned to find that the fight was over. Imoen sent a large yellow sphere flying at the last of the werewolves just as Lysara had sighted on it. It yawned and dropped its guard, apparently dozing, and Jaheira bashed its skull in. As suddenly as they'd started, her ears stopped tingling.

All of them took long, cautious turns until they had each surveyed the surrounding forest. The sound of night creatures returned a minute after the last beast had died. Only after she was satisfied that their enemies were expended did she crouch down to retrieve her blades.

They weren't there.

"Was anyone bitten?" Jaheira demanded. Imoen chuckled, her voice a bit more gravelly than normal, but denied having been bitten. Khalid was right on top of her, but Lysara didn't answer immediately, focusing on peering at the ground.

"Were you bitten?" the druid demanded again, grabbing the elf by the arm.

"No," Lysara replied distractedly. "Help me find my blades, would you? I could have sworn I dropped them right here…"

"Try looking on your hips girl," Jaheira scolded. "And answer me when I ask you something like that. I heard you scream."

Lysara blinked, looking first at Jaheira, then fingering what she'd expected to be empty scabbard mouths, surprised as she felt instead the cross guards and hilts of her short sword and dagger, neatly back in their sheaths.

"I'll be an imp's aunt," she said before realizing that she might very well be just that. "I swear I dropped them… right, thanks for the concern, but I'm fine."

"And you're surprised they returned to their sheaths? The sheaths themselves returned to you, after all. Come, if no one's been… hurt… we'll find another spot to camp tonight."

Lysara blinked as the memories of the last few minutes struck home, and the carnage around her took root in her mind. She had to fight to keep the bile down, and walked in what she hoped was a dignified manner away from the gore and the spilled blood. She'd trained for situations like this – not, perhaps, with werewolves in mind – and she'd done precisely as she'd been trained to do. She ought to have felt some sort of pride, but she was just disgusted. And in her mind each of the inhuman beasts wore the faces of those first two men that she'd killed back in Candlekeep.

When they'd stopped again a mile off, Lysara found claw marks – at least she hoped they were made by claws – on her dagger arm while she was emptying her stomach. Muttering, she bandaged them up at first, before a weird idea occurred to her.

"Wow that fight took a lot out of me," Imoen commented as she lowered herself against a tree. Lysara drew her dagger, whittling down a piece of a fallen tree branch until she had a smooth, flat disc that was more or less round.

"I s-should think s-s-o. A s-single simulacrum is hard enough for an advanced mage to create, you made twelve," Khalid put in as he hobbled the horses. Lysara carefully carved the symbol of Lathander into the face of the disc she'd just made. The blade cut through the fallen wood as easily as it had through her enemy's vestigial clothing, rendering the process easy.

"Eh, not exactly," Imoen replied. Jaheira was just looking at Lysara's actions with curiosity. "A simulacrum is a single exact copy of an existing person. The spell I used created a small set of… for lack of a better word, Imoens that could yet be."

She had even less idea why she'd done it than she did what Imoen meant, but once she had, she just put her knife away and clenched the token between her hands, muttering a soft prayer even as she envisioned herself watching the dawn, reaching out her hand towards it.

"Could yet be?" Khalid echoed.

"Don't ask," Imoen replied. "I'm not really sure I understand it completely myself."

Warmth and life filled her in an instant as Lathander answered her murmured prayer. Her left arm itched for just a moment, and then the sensations passed. Removing the bandage showed her the smooth, scarless skin she was used to seeing when she washed.

"So first you're a warrior, and now a priestess?" Jaheira asked from over her shoulder. "I've never heard of someone carving their own holy symbol. But if it works…"

Lysara knew that the older woman was right. This was the second time that she'd prayed for aid from her god and been answered, and the token that she'd carved was warm, so very warm, as she pressed it into the palm of her hand. It was comforting, knowing that a divine presence acknowledged her existence, and was willing to grant her help when she needed it. "I guess," she answered.

"May I see that?" Jaheira requested.

Lysara hesitated a moment, and then handed it over. The druid foraged around on the forest floor for a few moments, before coming up with a tangle of vines that she spent several minutes muttering over. When she was done, she handed the token back to Lysara, who found that it had what appeared to be a woven vine growing right out of the once again living wood. She slipped it over her head and arranged it in place around her neck.

"Thank you, Jaheira," Lysara said.

"You are welcome, Priestess of the Dawn," the druid answered.

[-]

She stood outside the gates of Candlekeep, staring hungrily into the keep. Even as she stared, the gate melded itself into a solid wall, as did all of the windows in turn looking out from the keep as she turned her gaze to them. She contemplated scaling the walls, but as she did, she noticed a raven perched atop the battlements. Though it was dark, and the distance great, she just _knew_ it was there. And she _knew_ it was the same raven that she'd seen in the pool so long ago, and the same raven that had haunted all of her other dreams of late. The creature, so seemingly insignificant, invoked that same dread it always did, and forced her to back away. Turning away from her one-time home, she saw a man standing there waiting for her.

Gorion led her once again away from the walls Candlekeep, stealing out into the night before those two deaths could be attributed to her. He spoke, in the calm, gentle voice that she'd always known, but some inaudible buzzing filled her ears, a barrier between her and the voice, the guidance, that she so desperately craved.

Perhaps it was because she couldn't remember what he'd said that night. Or perhaps it was because that sinister feeling and that voice that she couldn't place but knew she knew were distracting her. She just followed her father, helpless, powerless to change what was coming. She wanted to cry out, to warn him. But her body wouldn't respond. She just walked on and on. But suddenly, Gorion stopped, and gestured at a pathway in the forest that she hadn't noticed before. It sloped downward, curving out of sight, and looked smooth and easy to walk.

Smiling gratefully at her father, she stepped towards it, and just stopped. The armored fiend was visible just at the bend in the path, with his back to her. She didn't know why, but she thought that he didn't seem to be able to go any farther. Growling, she put a hand to her weapon, and looked to her father for permission.

He looked disappointed.

Letting go of her weapon was the hardest thing that she'd ever made herself do. But she did it, accepting this last piece of guidance that he offered her. She understood then, and her mind accepted it as she turned away, resuming the walk that she knew would lead to Gorion's death, and her own suffering. He led her into the clearing, and the scene replayed in her mind just as it had that horrible night.

"You're a fool if you believe I would trust _your_ benevolence," Gorion's voice caught her attention.

He'd known who her attacker was.

The realization hit her like the weight of Netheril. And when she saw him die again, she couldn't suppress her scream, especially since _the_ raven was sitting on the same branch as her. The huge man heard the sound, and stalked in her direction even as she felt herself falling backwards again.

"You will learn," that dark, formless voice said again.

[-]

"He knew!" Lysara squealed as she came awake in her bedroll, sitting bolt upright.

"I beg your pardon?" Khalid asked as Jaheira came awake again instantly. Imoen snorted and pulled her head up from her pillow.

"Whoever knew what can wait another five minutes," Imoen said groggily and lay her head back down.

"Who knew what?" Jaheira demanded right on top of Imoen.

"Father… he knew who it was that was coming after me. I remember now. It was the way he said it. He knew who was wearing that armor!" Lysara declared. "Did he ever mention…"

"No," Jaheira cut in. "He never told us of an enemy that was so very large as to be distinct like that. In our business we had plenty of foes, and stepped on many powerful peoples' toes. But I would remember someone as large as you say. Well, since we're up, we may as well eat and break camp." With that she stood up and pulled the bedroll out from under Imoen, who came up with a yelp.

They were past Bereghost, on their way south between that town and Nashkel, and Jaheira had, for some reason, taken to avoiding travelling directly on the road, though she refused to answer why.

"Is that smoke?" Imoen asked after about two hours' travelling south, pointing to a plume of black that was billowing into the sky.

"I make it to be about a half mile to the east," Lysara said, studying the sky and pulling her bow from its lashings. "We should-"

"We should avoid trouble until we reach Nashkel," Jaheira supplied forcefully.

"It could be a bandit attack," Lysara pressed. "There could still be people that need our help."

"These bandits strike with surprise and overwhelming force," Jaheira insisted. "Far too many for us to handle. And they do not leave survivors."

"But-"

"No, child! We avoid trouble and deal with the tainted mines first."

Lysara glared, then shook her head. "No way in the hells am I sitting by when there's a chance I can help people," she said, dismounting and drawing her hood up. "This cloak will keep me concealed, right? Well I'm going to go have a look. If I can help, I will. Come with me or go your own way."

Jaheira just sat in her saddle, staring at her as if she'd never seen her properly before. "And I am _not_ a child," Lysara added hotly. "Coming, Im?"

"You know it," her best friend replied, dropping down to her side. "Thanks for the horses, but I think you can have them back now, if this is goodbye."

The druid muttered and dismounted as well. "Khalid, hobble the mounts. You know what to look for if we need your help," she said, falling in with Lysara. "Well, what are you waiting for? Lead on."

The ambush wasn't far off. One wagon in a train of seven was aflame, beset by bandits flinging arrow and spell down at the guarded train, who were doing a decent job of defending themselves. Nearly as many corpses were dressed in forest greens and browns as there were in the blue and silver worn by the caravan guards.

"Imoen… check to see if you can find a source of magic big enough to be a portal," Lysara whispered. She could only sense magic herself if she was looking right at something that was putting it off.

Imoen shook her head. "I need a glass circle to cast that spell," she replied. "Since I don't have one I didn't bother memorizing it."

"Portal?" Jaheira asked. "What…"

"The bandits get in and out of their raids before anyone can react to a caravan in trouble, and never leave a trail, right?" Lysara explained. "Do you think that's because they're fast, or if they know patrol schedules, or do you suppose they just skip the whole part where they travel to their target?" Without awaiting a response, she pressed on. "Any of your animal contacts know where these troops are coming from?"

"Southeast, I think. The creatures of the forest…"

"That'll do. There's probably a mage or a priest, likely under heavy guard bringing troops in from their camp or camps. If we shut them down, then the defenders will have a chance."

Holding her bow carefully and keeping her cloak as close about her as she could, she started edging around the ambush site, shadowed by Imoen and Jaheira. A wolf appeared in their path, and Jaheira made a curious gesture at it.

"This one will scout a little ahead for us, and tell me if there are enemies awaiting us," the druid explained.

"I thought rangers were the ones with animal companions," Imoen whispered.

"They bond a single animal for life. I can bond a few for a short term if the need is great enough."

"Quiet," Lysara whispered harshly. To her surprise, both women fell silent at her command.

With the wolf's warnings, they managed to avoid three separate groups of bandits, and came to the base of a small hill. Lysara was no expert, but it looked like the rock formations and crumbling walls at the top of the hill would afford its occupants an unobstructed view of the road, while careful scouts could remain concealed.

"They're up there," Jaheira whispered, her eyes closed. "Seven of them. The wolf says there is only one 'pungent' human, and the rest have 'long, hard claws.'"

"So one mage and six swordsmen to back him up?" Lysara whispered back.

"That's what I gather. Animals think differently. It's sometimes hard to communicate."

"Watch your step. I can see faint emanations, probably wards or magical traps, between us and the top."

"Can you dispel them?"

"Even if I had the components I need, that would just alert the mage. Odds are he's better stocked and a lot more practiced than I am."

"So we need to take him out first, and with as little warning as possible," Lysara surmised. "I wonder if I can hit him from treetop."

"Go ahead and try," Jaheira said, shuddering. "The wolf just tripped a trap."

The possibility of using wildlife to solve their problem occurred to her, but she immediately shoved it away without voicing it. Not only did it require Jaheira's unlikely cooperation, but it was an even more horrid notion than sniping a man who didn't even know she was there. "Alright, I'm going up. I just hope they don't notice me before I get a shot off. Cover me down here."

"I've got your back, Lys," Imoen said, tracing symbols into the dirt around the tree. She started muttering as she did, but Lysara was too busy climbing to even try to listen. Just before she cleared the canopy, she caught a flash of blue light from the hilltop, and froze. Moving her head very, very carefully, she caught sight of it again. A gap in a crumbling wall at the hill's summit gave her a brief view of the portal.

Climbing up as high as she could get, she settled her rear on a branch near the tree's apex, and held very still, very much aware of how clean a target she presented herself. But she also had a view of a man standing in front of the portal, hands stretched out towards it. He was thin, and tall, with tanned skin – what Lysara could see of it – and a bald head, complete with intricate tattoos. His robes were pure scarlet, and he was bedecked with jewelry that Lysara couldn't make out from where she was.

Red Scourge; he was a Thayvian Red Wizard.

None of his companions, whom she also had a view on, appeared to have noticed her. She had to position herself very, very carefully, and remind herself that this man's death was to defend everyone in that caravan, from which a second black smoke plume had risen. Breathing deeply to steel her nerve, she ran her hands along her bow shaft, idly tracing one of the runes with her finger.

And then, bile rising in her throat at what she was about to do, she pulled back, distractedly noting that her arrow was a darker blue, and now had a pulsing white line arcing through it, and sighted the wizard. "Forgive me," she whispered, and let fly.

The thunderclap was as unexpected as it was deafening. She dropped backwards down several branches when she lost her perch in surprise, and barely caught herself. But it quite effectively concealed her from the hilltop. Peeking again through the gap in the wall, she saw no sign of the portal. Either the mage had let his spell fall, or he had been interrupted in maintaining it.

"What in the abyss was that sound?" Jaheira demanded as Lysara's feet touched the ground.

"Thunder," Lysara replied simply. "I've got a theory on why my bow suddenly shoots lighting arrows instead of frost, but right now, we should probably move."

"Did you nail that mage?" Imoen asked. "I sensed a drop in the magic from the hilltop…"

"Don't know, but we can talk about it…"

"I warded this tree, within a few paces. We're safe here if the mage is out of the picture," Imoen assured her. "A few runes and a few words of power."

"Hope you did your work right," Lysara replied, tracing her finger over another rune. She pulled back again, and this time her arrow was a flaming red bolt, until she cautiously released the tension on the string.

"We should join the fight," she said when she'd lowered her bow. "Even with the bandit reinforcements cut off, the caravan is still in trouble."

"The mage is dead, right?" Imoen asked.

"I'm not sure," Lysara admitted. "The recoil knocked me off my perch. I didn't see him get hit or go down." Sighing, she shook her head. "Alright. Let's go make sure he's dead."

"The wards are gone. There's a good chance that he's at least out cold."

Lysara crept cautiously uphill, being very careful to keep the crumbling wall between her and the apex. A… spell suddenly came to mind, as if Lathander himself wanted her to cast it, and she had the wooden disc she'd carved the previous night in hand before she thought about it, mumbling words and envisioning the dawn again. She somehow felt lighter and sturdier at the same time. Hood up, she peeked into the crack in the wall through which she'd first sighted the portal.

The red wizard, headless, lay on his back a half dozen paces from where he'd been struck, limbs splayed out. Six warrior bodies lay spread about the circle, some slumped over broken masonry, others just sprawled out. But all of them showed signs of having been burnt, and the source of the damage was obvious. A crater marked the spot where the portal had stood, scorch marks radiating out in a circle from its perimeter.

"Wow. That's one powerful bow," Imoen whispered as they surveyed the massacre. She stepped out of their meager shelter and went straight for the wizard's body, clearly trying not to retch.

"Likely it was the energy of the portal being disrupted which caused the blast. Perhaps we were lucky and it did the same on the other end," Jaheira put in.

"Imoen, what are you doing?" Lysara demanded at a whisper as her best friend knelt next to the dead mage.

"Wands, scrolls, devices and components," she replied just as quietly. "If he has any, I'll need them very, very soon. Just cutting off the troops isn't enough. We've got to support their defense efforts, or that caravan is doomed."

"I didn't expect you to be so pragmatic," Jaheira commented, peering down the hill towards the ambush. Lysara paced between the north and west overlooks, keeping an eye out for the bandits' two most likely avenues of retreat.

"I don't even recognize half this stuff," Imoen muttered as she rifled through the dead mage's pouches and pockets. "Ooh, wands. Let's see… iron rod, likely lightning… forked grip is a wand of finding… scroll case… pewter with a diamond on the end; cancellation… a bag of holding, goodie. I'll rummage through that later."

Imoen examined the scroll case before breaking the seal, slipping out a large number of scrolls of varying material and presumably varying spells. She pulled out what looked, to Lysara, to be a random series of the parchments she flipped through before putting the rest away.

"This'll do for now," she reported. "Most of his gear is radiating magic, but I don't want to… y'know…"

"That looks like a signet ring," Jaheira said, "on the third finger of his right hand. Take that so we can identify him later."

"Why…"

"Because if Thay is backing the bandits, it goes a long way towards explaining who is behind this crisis. They hadn't even made the list of suspects."

Imoen complied, removing the indicated ring and tossing it to Jaheira, who tucked it into a pouch. "He's likely just a mercenary. Thay doesn't have interests in this part of the world, I don't think. Anyway, we've dallied here long enough. Let's go save some innocents."

"The animals are indicating that they're staging their attacks in waves from groups hidden in the tree line on either side of the road," Jaheira reported. "My guess would be that they're trying to wear down the defenders and constantly hit them from their weakest flank."

"If we take out whichever group is supposed to go next, it might throw them off balance," Lysara suggested. "Khalid's skills would be useful in that."

"He can never sneak up on anyone, and that plan calls for stealth," Jaheira retorted as she pointed down the hill. "There's a group of five, one hundred paces that way."

"Let's take them out then… nice and quiet," Lysara said, dreading what was to come. She set her bow back to frost – at least, she thought she did – and moved as quietly as she could in the direction the druid had indicated.

Imoen and Lysara had grown up playing stealth-related pranks. They both knew how to move without being heard, and apparently Jaheira was just as skilled. Lysara couldn't hear anyone moving near her as they snuck up to a copse. Five humans were inside, all of them archers and all of them facing the caravan, whose defenders were obviously weakening. Lysara nodded to both women, who nodded back, before stepping directly behind the middle man.

"Forgive me," was all the warning she gave them. The first one died even as he spun towards her, her short sword's edge taking his throat. The second lost his life to her dagger piercing his heart. The third, on the first's right, managed to get his bow into a blocking position, but her slashing sword sliced through the flimsy thing and bit deep into his weapon arm. She reversed the grip on her dagger and followed up with a pommel strike to the side of his head, knocking him out.

Directly in front of her as she lowered her last victim to the ground, she saw the fourth one take Jaheira's staff across the shoulders. He cried out as he fell, but the druid used the recoil from the strike to reverse the staff's direction, bringing the other end into his gut and driving the breath from his lungs. Lysara turned to the last, to see him just standing there, as if he couldn't make up his mind to let fly the arrow he had trained on her. His eyes were wide with terror, flitting around the copse, but otherwise not a hair about him stirred.

"That should hold him in place for a while," Imoen commented, drawing her dagger and slicing his bowstring. She picked up a quiver and a bow from one of the dead men and settled them in place about her shoulders.

A horn sounded nearby, its call repeated on the other side of the road.

"They're using horn blasts to coordinate the attack," Lysara stated. Peering carefully across the road, she pointed at a squad of a dozen or so who was pouring arrows at the beleaguered defenders. "I don't suppose you've got a nice fireball for the villains over there?" she asked Imoen.

In response the girl flipped through the scrolls she'd extracted earlier, reading from one in no language Lysara could name and pointing at the target group with her free hand. As soon as the incantation was complete, an orange sphere flew from her hand, striking the ground in the middle of the bandit group and sending an expanding wave of flame out in all directions. Their screams were cut short as most of them died before they could finish.

Lysara's bow claimed both of the men who'd been standing outside the fireball's radius. "Bind them well. We've work to be about and questions to ask them later," she ordered.

They used the bandits' own bootstraps to tie their hands together, Lysara muttering a soft prayer for the one she'd merely wounded before they left. He wasn't all the way healed, just enough to stop the bleeding. They were sure that he, at least, wasn't going anywhere. Attempting to run with the blood he'd lost wouldn't get him very far. Imoen made some mutterings over the bindings and told the men that the cords would cut their hands off if they tried to escape.

Lysara wasn't entirely sure she was bluffing.

The next group had seven men, which was reduced to four by the time their band was through. Lysara didn't kill anyone out of that group, for which she was grateful. Another mage, though this one obviously not a Thayvian, was among the dead in that group, and Imoen's stock of components got a bit bigger.

Next time it was Jaheira's magic that eliminated a squad rushing the other side, as she called a bolt of lightning down from the clear sky directly atop their position. One of the enemy horn men was among the dead, effectively killing their communications. Lysara cut the horn into pieces for good measure, just in case any of the three survivors from that group knew how to use it.

By then, though, the battle was over. What bandits were left seemed to have realized they no longer had the upper hand, and that their reinforcements hadn't shown up for quite some time. Jaheira's animal scouts reported some dozen men fleeing, scattering in every direction with a general focus on east-northeast from the hilltop.


	8. Surprises

"Get the prisoners," Lysara told the other two when she was sure that the last of the bandits were gone. "I'm going to make our presence known."

Without giving Imoen or Jaheria a chance to reply, she held her bow up high and threw back her hood, stepping out of the trees' cover and into the open sunlight.

She was spotted immediately, and had a score of arrows nocked and ready to fly at her with the slightest provocation. "Peace!" she yelled as loudly as she could.

One of the men – he wore a full plate mail, enameled in exquisite detail with the stone hand and lidless eye of Helm - reached over and forced one of his soldier's weapon arms down, yelling "Hold fire!" in a loud, authoritative voice.

"Who are you that walks out of the enemy's lines claiming peace?" the man demanded. "A bandit seeking to surrender?"

"Just a helpful traveller, sir," Lysara called, lowering her bow to rest on the ground next to her. "My friends and I eliminated the bandit mage who was ferrying additional troops in against you, and have taken several prisoners. May we approach?"

"If your claims are true, then you're our best friend right now," the man called back, voice muffled by his helmet. "Approach, then," he added with a 'come here' gesture.

"Your name, milady?" the man asked, gesturing for her to stop when she was still about six paces away. His eyes, the only visible part of his body, took her in from head to heel, resting on her weapons especially.

"Lysara Vantress, of Candlekeep," she introduced herself. "The ten men filing out behind me I do not know. But the girl in the purple blouse is Imoen Catari, also of Candlekeep. She threw the fireball responsible for that." She pointed her free hand towards the scorched bodies and earth. And the blonde woman with a staff is Jaheria… um… I don't know her family name, actually. I'll have to remember to ask. She's a druid of no small power, and credit for that lightning bolt goes to her."

"Sir Ajantis Ilvastarr is my name, Paladin of Helm and Knight of the Most Holy Order of the Radiant Heart," the man introduced himself. "Not technically commander of these men, I'm afraid, though I was their patron. I just stepped in when their actual commander was slain in the opening volley."

"Cowardly dogs," one of the men spat. "Deserve the rope, all of 'em."

"First we'd like a few answers out of them," Lysara replied delicately. "But before that can take place, are your wounded being tended to?"

"Only a few of the soldiers that were hit at all survived. I have the aid of a most unlikely priestess in restoring them to health."

He stepped aside slightly, gesturing towards the wagon he was standing in front of. Just inside the open door, a woman was kneeling. All Lysara could see of her was silvery-blonde hair and the back of a coal-grey robe.

"Viconia was one of our few actual passengers. She is a drow, and I nearly killed her on the spot when I learned of it. But she doesn't serve Lolth, and was willing to help keep our men in the fight, so I spared her life."

"A drow that doesn't serve Lolth?" Lysara asked. "I thought that was just a rumor."

"As I thought surface-dwellers with an understanding of my people were," a cold, almost sneering voice – if voices could sneer, hers would have been - called back in heavily accented common.

Choosing to turn away from the open door, she turned to Ajantis. "What brings a Knight of the Radiant Heart this far north? I thought your order was based in middle Amn."

"Indeed, fair lady," he replied, removing his helmet. "We are based out of Athkatla, one of the largest trade cities in Amn. My superior, Sir Keldorn Firecam, dispatched me to investigate the matter of this iron shortage that is threatening to spark war between the Council of Six and the Grand Dukes. To that end, I commissioned this caravan as bait to draw our enemies into an attack. I underestimated the strength of their assault however."

He had a rugged sort of look to him, though he was clearly a few years her senior at most, with long dark hair and broody-looking blue eyes. And he had a scar down the right side of his face. And then there was the fact that he was a real live Paladin. She felt her cheeks coloring just looking at him.

He continued, affecting to have not noticed the effect he was having on her as he approached. And perhaps he didn't. Men could be thick like that, in Lysara's experience. "It was fortunate for us that you decided to interfere. Without your aid, we likely would all be dead by now."

He gave her a small bow and looked over her shoulder. And she reluctantly turned her gaze away from the handsome paladin to watch her companions. "Fortunate for us both, Sir Ilvastarr. My companions and I have also been looking into the iron shortage. We were only too happy to have rendered aid."

"You were happy. I would have preferred to keep my nose out of it," Jaheria's voice came over her shoulder. "Stand down, child. Let me talk to the nice Paladin."

"When are you going to stop speaking to me as if I'm a child?" Lysara asked, turning to Jaheria. "Didn't I just prove that I'm capable?"

"You've proven yourself in battle. But if you think that makes you an adult, think again. Among your people you're not even of age until you hit forty-four."

"Ladies, please…" Adjantis started.

"Stay out of it," both Lysara and Jaheria snapped at the man in perfect tandem.

"Perhaps we shouldn't be having this discourse where others can witness it," Lysara offered after a moment of mutually glaring at Jaheria. "Not very mature of us, is it?"

"You seldom are," Jaheria quipped. "Oh you have your moments…"

Lysara had to fight down the urge to slap Jaheria as the druid trailed off with a smirk. Instead she just smirked right back and shook her head, feigning a chuckle. "And you're supposed to be the mature one," she replied.

To her right, she heard one of the merchant guards mutter, "I'm not going anywhere near that."

"Will you two be silent?" The drow's voice suddenly sliced into the conversation just as Jaheria had opened her mouth to retort. "I'm surprised the goddess can hear me over the sounds of your petty cat-fighting."

Viconia had appeared, her skin a shade of grey that Lysara thought looked somewhat less than healthy, and sat wearily on the wagon step. "I have done what I can," she said, addressing Ajantis. "But I have only so much strength, and I _was_ keeping your soldiers in the fight far longer than they should have been. Will you allow me to continue unhindered?"

"I don't suppose any of your friends have healing abilities?" Ajantis addressed Lysara before Jaheria could sally forth a doubtlessly witty reply.

"I am but new to the Morninglord's favor, but what powers he grants me are at your disposal," Lysara replied. "The druid will be glad to lend Sylvanus' favor to those with minor cuts and bruises, I'm sure."

"Absolutely not," Jaheria said firmly. "We've wasted enough time already on…"

"Didn't you hear me earlier? Or has your age dulled those ears of yours to even flatter tips?" That made the druid's eyes sparkle dangerously, and her back went a little stiffer. "I will not turn my back on any who need my help. Go question the bandits if you refuse to heal. Be sure and separate them first so they can't match up stories, hmm?" Feeling that she'd gotten the upper hand in that exchange, Lysara hurried into the wagon she'd taken to be the 'wounded wagon' before the druid could respond.

"Show me to the worst wounded," she told the drow before ducking away from the door.

"Very interesting," Viconia commented as she pointed to the last bedroll on the floor.

"What is?" Lysara asked, fishing her holy symbol from beneath her blouse and kneeling next to a girl a year her junior. She looked almost ready to bleed out right there, especially with that nasty gash open across the belly of her chain mail.

"Your relationship with the druid. Is she your mother?" the other priestess asked.

"Nine hells, no," Lysara murmured before launching into a healing prayer and directing its energies at the gash.

The drow let her finish her spell, examining her handiwork before leading her to the next worst. "It was only a passing thought. Your level of contention just now reminded me of my own mother and one of my sisters."

"Is there a purpose in your observations?" Lysara asked, healing a gaping wound in a man's shoulder. Flesh and bone knitted together seamlessly almost instantly.

"You're pouring far too much energy into your spells."

"And you would know about casting Lothandar's spells… how?"

"I do not," she drow's pretty face smirked. "But I do know of casting clerical spells in general. You will burn yourself to a cinder channeling that much of your fiery god's power constantly. How do you… what do you envision when you pray to your deity for power?"

"Lothander is Lord of the Dawn, the Morninglord. I see myself reaching towards the sun. Why?"

"Try positioning the sun differently in your mental scenery. For simple wounds like this one," the drow gestured at a man who only had surface cuts, "try envisioning yourself reaching towards the sun just as its rays first peek over the horizon."

Frowning, Lysara did as the drow bade, healing the man's cuts. The warmth was less, so much less than it had been the last few times she'd tried to cast a spell. The man's wounds healed more slowly, but at least she wasn't feeling the need to jump in cold water. "That's much better. Thank you."

"We can't have our only other healer wearing herself out too quickly, now can we? That pompous oaf will likely blame me if you keel over from tapping too much power. You have never received training in clerical magic, have you?"

"Not a tenday ago, deep in the woods, was the first time that Lathander granted me his boon," Lysara replied, moving on to the next person in line.

The drow smirked. "I know not precisely what powers your god will deign to grant you, nor even which domains' abilities he is able to grant. But if you can channel as much as you were just now and live while you are yet so new, you will be quite the powerful little priestess with training."

"Why are you here?" Lysara asked, seeking a change in topic. She wasn't about to debate the nature of power with a drow.

"My history is my own, _ibblith_," Viconia answered testily. "I am no servant of the Spider Queen… nor have I been for many years. I am not here for nefarious purpose, and have no allegiance to any drow city, outpost, or colony, nor these bandits whom you've just helped to slaughter. That _should_ be sufficient for you, Lysara Vantress of Candlekeep."

When Lysara didn't reply, instead focusing on her spellwork, the drow pressed on. "You appear to be darthiir… a full-blooded _elf_ native to the surface. Why do you claim to be of Candlekeep? I thought that it was a library run by humans, not a… mixed settlement."

"Is there some reason it cannot be both?" Lysara retorted as she set a broken thigh bone, then cast yet another healing spell. "If you must know, I was raised there, one of exactly two children, the occasional visitor's child notwithstanding, raised and living among librarians and monks."

"The tedium must be what drove you from its walls. I certainly would not stay there had I a choice."

"Ah yes, getting nostalgic for the ritual murders you used to commit in Lolth's name?"

The drow bit her lip, her face a mask of fury. "I left behind _everything_, all for a single failure," she spat, barely controlling her rage.

"Then we're alike," Lysara said as she finished healing the last of the wounded in that batch. "In that much at least."

Viconia's eyes narrowed, and her face moved from furious to thoughtful. "I had never thought to have anything in common with _darthiir_," she commented. "When you leave this place, perhaps I will accompany your group. Your task seems an interesting one. An amusing diversion, if nothing else."

"When we leave, we _might_ take you. But it's up to the others."

"How do you mean?"

"All of us must accept you. I won't be responsible for causing divisions to crop up."

"The divisions are already there," the drow said offhandedly. "You and the _tu'rilthiir_ have not had your last argument. And unless I am much mistaken, she will continue to attempt to assert her control. Ultimately though, it will be you who has the run of your… band. She leads because she's used to it and because she wants to. You lead because you're born to."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I have seen it dozens of times over. You are born to lead. Those around you will follow when you take charge, especially when it's something you _know_ needs to be done. Your druid… ally… implied she was reluctant to come to our aid. You are the one who convinced her to come, aren't you?"

"You overestimate me," Lysara muttered. "Are there any more?"

"Perhaps… but perhaps you underestimate yourself," the drow replied. "I believe that was the last of them who could be saved."

"Time to move on to the dead then."

Viconia snatched Lysara's forearm as she tried to rise. "You are too new yet to even consider attempting a raising," she warned.

"I know that. I meant last rites. Between the two of us and the paladin, there's a good chance we can commend everyone who died here."

"Oh." The drow looked chagrined, but released her.

"Why is that following you around?" Jaheria asked when Lysara emerged from the wagon with Viconia in tow.

"Oh, she's not so bad," Lysara replied lightly, winking where the drow couldn't see and gesturing for Jaheria to fall in step. She was surprised when the druid did. "Gave me a bit of help and everything."

"Likely only because doing so would help save her own skin."

"Learn anything from the prisoners?" Lysara asked quickly, before Viconia could respond to that.

"The only thing they would agree upon, after a little convincing, was that their leader's name is Tazok. He's apparently an ogre, or maybe a half-orc. Those two possibilities popped up most often. Their camp moves periodically, likely after each raid returns, and this is apparently the first one which isn't coming back."

"So we can expect another strike then," Lysara commented.

"Likely with more force than the first," Jaheria confirmed as if she'd heard a question in Lysara's voice which wasn't there. "And likely they started mustering the moment that the portal collapsed."

"Tell Sir Ilvastarr, or whoever is in charge to get us ready to leave immediately," she said to Viconia.

"And the dead?" the drow asked.

"We haven't got time to dig graves, and I'm not leaving a pyre that size unattended," Lysara said quickly. "Nor am I willing to leave them simply rotting. Pack them in one of the wagons, and we'll attend their souls when we reach Nashkel."

"Nashkel is to the south. This caravan was bound north."

"And the raiders know that. Which is why it's going to turn back around and head back where it came from," Lysara insisted. "Their next strike is going to hit the road to the north of us, not the south."

The drow bowed her head and scurried off, causing Jaheria to chew her lip and shake her head.

"What?" Lysara asked.

"Never trust a drow. Especially one who is acting servile," the druid counseled.

"I meant it when I said she doesn't seem that bad," the elf replied. "But yes, I know… I don't intend to trust her as far as I could throw Neverwinter… until she earns it."

"But you're going to take her with you."

"That's up to you, Khalid, and Imoen. Maybe, just maybe she's not as bad as the rest of her race. We both know of drow who aren't evil. She did, after all, turn her back on Lolth."

"Or so she claims. Drow are very, very good at lying."

"You cannot lie to the gods," Ajantis said, joining them. "I've heard her calling out to Shar, not Lolth. And I made her crush a spider as a price for not killing her, which she did with neither hesitation nor remorse. If she were still in the Spider Queen's service, she would have been burned to a cinder even if it were a pretense. Viconia told me your suggestions and requests, and I agree with all of them. We turn south within the hour. The bodies of our fallen are being wrapped for transport as we speak, in the wagons."

"Leave the cargo. It'll just slow us down."

"You mean to join us then?" the paladin asked with a smile. "For your information, 'our cargo' was a large quantity of iron manacles."

"Found a good use for them, I trust."

"A few pairs anyway. Some of the men want us to put them to the sword."

"And waste both their lives and the lives of the men who paid for what's in the prisoners' minds?" Lysara asked, sickened.

"I agree. And that very argument held their swords at bay. You seem a very capable woman to see it as such."

She felt her cheeks warm at the man's compliment. "A simple excuse, truth be told. I don't like the idea of men being butchered," she admitted.

"Mercy for bandits?" the paladin asked incredulously. "The only reason I protected them is because of the information they carry."

"So if they knew nothing you would simply kill them?" Lysara asked, feeling put off.

"They are murderers."

"Guilt by association then? How do you know if they've actually taken life before?"

"They were a part of this raid. Even if they hadn't struck a killing blow before, even if they have never been part of a raid before, they intended to," Ajantis argued.

"Intentions can change. People can be redeemed. Killing them denies them the chance to do so."

"A person who has murdered once will do so again."

"And are you any better?" Lysara asked, the faces of her first victims once again flowing into her mind's eye. "Murder and execution are no different. They both steal something which, barring the gods' own intervention, can never be returned."

"I said you were capable before. Now I see that potential is mired down in naiveté," the knight scoffed.

"If by that you mean I refuse to be a servant of murder, then I take it as a compliment," Lysara returned hotly.

"This bickering is pointless," Jaheria asserted. "Save your philosophical debates for the road."

"Agreed," Lysara bit the word out, irritated that the druid was right, and that she'd needed to be reminded. "You've recalled Khalid with our mounts and supplies, I assume?"

"Of course. He's on his way now."

"I think that's everything. We should get going."

[-]

If she thought that travelling with Jaheria had been dull, barring that werewolf attack, helping escort a caravan was absolute torture. Lysara felt like a duck sitting on a nice, wide open pond's surface, moving very slowly and being watched by unseen predators on either side. She kept to the back of her own horse the first day, her eyes constantly roving the woods on either side of the caravan. One of her companions was always somewhere nearby. Imoen took to sitting next to the driver of the lead wagon while reading her book and doing various exercises that were written within. Then Jaheria would ride up and scold her for getting involved, when they could be in Nashkel days sooner if they'd just left the caravan behind – not that she objected to having helped them, not anymore – but the delay was interminable. Lysara had to remind her – twice – that they wouldn't have as much information on the bandits as they did now if they hadn't 'interfered' this time. And for once, the druid had no snappy remark or comeback to that. Khalid kept his distance, riding on the far side of the column from her, but the way he moved showed he was being just as vigilant as she was.

Adjantis and Viconia took their turns at her too, though it was painfully obvious that the drow and the paladin were making pains to avoid each other. Adjantis wanted to bring Lysara around to his way of thinking, and she was almost impressed enough with his paladin-ness, and the fact that he was just too darn cute, to overlook the fact that he was trying to console her conscience with something that she knew in her heart was wrong. She got the impression that he'd stay his hand from the bandits' throats only until they'd handed them over to the guard in Nashkel, or if she relented. And she was determined not to relent in this.

Viconia was sycophantically trying to get into her good graces. It was when she wasn't being flattering that Lysara would actually pay attention. She actually knew quite a bit about clerical magic, and not just that pertaining to the gods that she'd worshipped in her life. There were general principles that seemed to apply to tapping any god's power, about something she called 'spheres' that pertained somehow to the elements and various aspects of life. The drow administered a little test, not even trying to disguise what it was, and simply told Lysara that she was strong in the domains of healing and air, and weak in earth and death as a result.

A few discreet questions to the paladin when he took his turn confirmed most of what Viconia had told her, even the 'sphere test' that she'd undergone. But paladins weren't priests, and he did things with what powers he had very differently then she with hers. He was much less helpful in that than Viconia was.

If there was one consolation to the endless badgering and constant worry, it was the fact that campfires were allowed, as Jaheria couldn't, and didn't bother to try to stop that many men from having a bit of warmth and a proper supper at night. Her first hot meal since the inn was divine, even if the stew tasted like something out of Imoen's cook book. She devoured it hungrily, and even took a second bowl, which she scarfed with equal voracity.

"Up for a lil' game, girlie?" one of the men asked with a lecherous grin after she'd finished her food.

"Lysara is not…" Jaheria started to say.

"What kind of game you got in mind?" Lysara asked just as sweetly as she could, neatly cutting the overbearing druid off.

"Oh it's real simple it is. We've got this jug o' spirits, potato whisky, you see," the man explained, "Real good stuff. We take turns taking shots an' the first one what passes out loses."

"Lysara…" Jaheria started again in a warning voice.

"The stakes?" she asked, ignoring the druid again.

"Well, could go in for just money, or maybe something… a lot more interesting," the man said, openly eyeing her body.

"My cloak, boots, and body are off limits," she told him, raising her own warning. "My blades and bow wouldn't serve you even if I were willing to wager them. I'll play for coin if you like, but nothing else."

"Fine. Rules are simple. Each round we buy in, say five bits to a shot. Then each of us takes a drink. If one of us doesn't pass out, we start another round. Pot keeps getting bigger until one of us keel's over or goes broke. Whoever's still up at the end gets it. Spit it out and you forfeit. Pass out and you forfeit. Run off to upchuck and you forfeit. If more'n one of us is up when the liquor runs dry, we split the pot, minus the cost of the booze – that goes to whoever brought it."

"Make it a silver to a round," Lysara replied, drawing a dagger stare out of Jaheria, "and you've a wager."

"Anyone else in?" the first man asked loudly. "One silver a round."

"Let's get going then," Lysara said when once two other men had joined in.

"Absolutely not," Jaheria said.

"Stay out of it," Lysara snapped. "I'm a grown woman, and…"

"You're only 'playing' because you know I disapprove," Jaheria interrupted crossly.

Lysara shrugged. "I know what I can and can't handle," she replied, not even denying the druid's accusation. Tweaking the older, domineering woman's nose was indeed part of the fun.

Jaheira shook her head, standing and looking furious. "Very well then, oh grown, mature woman," she said condescendingly. "Do not expect me to pull you out of some lecher's blankets when you're too drunk to realize what they're doing to you!" After that, she stalked off.

Lysara felt a stab of guilt, but consoled herself to the fact that at last she was going to prove to the overbearing druid that alcohol didn't have much, if any, of an effect on her. Soon enough a crate was set up between the four of them, everyone else watching expectantly as the first man, whom Lysara suspected was at least twice her age, set up exactly twenty small clear cups dead center, filling them with an equally clear liquid from a bottle that he pulled out of his cloak. "Right then, simple enough. I drink first since it's my game, then you lot match me if you can. Last one awake wins the pot."

He picked up a glass and tipped its contents back without ceremony.

The other three players took their cue and drank. The potato whiskey, or whatever it was, certainly packed a bigger punch than the wine that she'd been guzzling at the Friendly Arm. It burned on the way down after she'd swallowed. Gasping, she slammed the glass facedown as her opponent had done, coughing and tearing up.

"Ha! Girl can't 'old 'er liquor," the letch teased. "That pot's as good as mine. Next round!"

Lysara, whose mind was still quite clear, pulled another silver from her pouch and dropped it on the board. He drank again, and casually put his glass down next to his first. Picking up her own, she tipped the contents back, this time braced for the sheer acid that she knew was coming.

"People actually drink this stuff?" she asked as she reached forward, quite calmly and steadily depositing her second glass.

Her opponent scowled at her. Likely she'd insulted his favorite drink, his favorite game, his taste, or all of the above. Perhaps he was disconcerted about how steady she knew she looked. He tipped back his next glass, and she downed one of her own, placing the glass down with just as level and even a hand as she'd done the second. By the fifth round, the man's hand was shaking, and his words were slurred, and one man had forfeited by running off to vomit.

"Such a pretty lass. Oh you'll make a fine bed partner I'll wager… hic!" He tipped back his sixth glass, not even seeming to notice that she was still perfectly sober when she took another shot. "You'll… change yer mind yet girl…"

The first bottle was done and the challenger could barely sit up straight as he tried to set the game back up for the second. By now the betting around them had changed substantially, those who had bet on their comrade trying to change their wagers. There were a lot of those, but the bookkeeper wouldn't hear of it.

"What are you… a bloody dwarf in elf's skin?" her other adversary asked, drawing a general chuckle out of the crowd. He took his eleventh shot and almost missed the board setting his cup down. Then he fell over.

"Oh, I'm just Lys," she replied to the first man without a hint of a slur. "Cheers," she added as she tipped back her own.

"Oh. I think it's starting to affect me," she said as her foe was reaching for the fifteenth cup. "A little tingling in my fingers…"

"Ha! Told you lads… the girl can't hold her liquor," the last man bragged as he downed his fifteenth cup. Then with an almighty belch, he fell over sideways, only missing landing in the fire because one of his cohorts caught him. As much booze as was in him, Lysara wouldn't have been surprised had he burned to a cinder just touching an open fire. Or exploded. He could have exploded. Either way, she took her shot, and one more for good measure, before scooping up her winnings into her pouch.

Standing up, still perfectly in control, she took a bow to the crowd, and received a mixture of applause and halfhearted grunts. Imoen caught up to her before she'd gone five steps past the edge of the crowd, a rather large purse jingling in her hand.

"I take it you bet on me?" Lysara asked, feeling pleased with herself and her friend.

"You know it," Imoen replied with her characteristic grin. "C'mon, Janty emptied out a wagon for 'the women folk' to sleep in, so we don't have to fend off lecherous perverts, y'know?"

Lysara found herself giggling and shook her head. "Sometimes," she said, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot. "It's good to be a girl."

"Most of the time," Imoen agreed readily. "Just that one time every…"

"Let's not talk about that, okay?" Lysara replied delicately. She didn't know if it was because she was more fertile than Imoen or simply because she was an elf, but her cycles had tended to be more difficult to endure than Imoen claimed hers were.

"Ok, how about we talk about the way you keep swooning over that paladin instead, hmm?" Imoen teased. She put the back of her hand to her forehead and feigned a fainting spell. "Oh Sir Ajantis, I'm so weak-kneed just being near you…"

Lysara made the predictable move and tried to slap Imoen on the shoulder, which the impish girl dodged with a cackle. "Always had a thing for knights, haven't you, Lys?" she pressed, dancing just out of reach, but keeping herself moving towards a wagon that had Jaheria sitting outside of it. The druid was studiously _not_ paying attention to the spectacle of the two friends at play, instead mending her jerkin.

"Had fun tonight?" Jaheria asked testily without looking up as they approached.

Lysara spared her a weary glare. "Yes, in fact," she replied a touch defensively, "it was a great deal of fun. I had a bottle and a half of that… potato stuff that burned like hellfire, but as you can see, I'm not drunk in the slightest."

"Gave some to Imoen, did you?" Jaheria asked, shooting the human woman a glare.

"Nope, I haven't had a drop all night," Imoen laughed. "This's just how I am after a good party."

"Pardon the interruption," the aforementioned Sir Ajantis said, appearing around a corner.

"You're not interrupting," Lysara said a touch too quickly. Why was she breathless all of a sudden? How much had he heard? Why was he so handsome, damn it? Jaheria rose and wordlessly went into the wagon and Imoen was simply not there when Lysara tried to look at her again.

"That is… good to hear," he said, looking puzzled at suddenly being alone with her. "I have been… rather rude. I hope you'll accept my apology, Lady Vantress," he said with a slight bow.

"Were you?" she asked, feeling her heart beat a little faster. "I hadn't noticed."

"Fair lady, I have been unspeakably rude to you. Not the least of which is that I haven't even offered to reward you for your service to us. We wouldn't be here now if your party hadn't come along."

"I need no reward for saving lives," she told him, finding her mental footing at the reminder of the carnage. "Nor will I accept one for ending those that I had to."

"A noble sentiment, milady," he said with another bow.

"Please. I am not a noblewoman," she told him with an upraised hand. "I grew up in a library, surrounded by monks and scholars… and Imoen."

"Your arms are fit for a warrior queen, Mistress Vantress," he insisted. "And if they will serve no hand but yours… were they made for you?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea whom they were made for. My father told me that they served my mother's bloodline, and that they're ancient. That she was an elf is all I know of her. Please, call my Lys; or Lysara if you must."

"As you wish, Miss Lysara," he said, making her roll her eyes when he bowed his head. "About your reward…"

"I believe I told you that I will not accept one," she insisted. "Besides, my friend and I just cleaned your men out of their income. It wouldn't be fair to accept anything else."

"Ah, but I have something which I believe is already yours. It has the same look as your scabbards and bow, and burns people who try to wear it. Our scryers believe they are locked to a particular bloodline, and… well… they look like they were meant to go with that belt."

"Assuming that this item is part of the same set… how would you have come by it?" She was intrigued. Rewards for killing, even with cause, she wouldn't touch. But if it was part of her forebear's arms¸ didn't that make it already hers? There was no shame in accepting that which already belonged to her, was there?

"The Order has accumulated a large number of artifacts over the years. What I speak of is actually two items: a pair of bracers, matched and identical. Here, I have them with me."

He produced a pair of metal bracers, and Lysara could tell at a glance that he was right about their origin. The black metal, gilded on the edges was unscratched, unscarred, and untarnished; the black substance coating the interior could have been created yesterday, just as the grip of her sword. She took them from him, fighting the urge to just put them on. Each of them were engraved with two runes, each enclosed in a circle. Each of these she'd seen before, gilded onto the surface of her bow.

"How did the order come by them?"

"A skirmish in the Black Hills, in Amn," he said. "One of our squires, a man named Delryn tripped in a mud hole while trying to catch up to his superior and they came loose, or so he says. They shed the mud instantly, looking even then as they do now. Those few who have tried to use them – he was the first - have suffered burned forearms that resisted magical healing and were unable to fight for weeks as they mended naturally. When we determined their rightful owner wasn't in Amn, they were given to me. As I was coming north anyway, I was instructed to take them to Candlekeep, should time and circumstance allow, and see if any of the great scholars there could trace their origins and rightful heirs."

"I'll have my friend Imoen check them before I try them on. You understand of course," Lysara said, clutching them to her chest. "It isn't that I don't trust you, but these could be some ancient, cursed replicas simply designed to incapacitate enemy warriors or thieves who are poking among the dead."

"Yes, we thought the same might be the case. Our own divinations, both divine and arcane, revealed that they weren't created for malicious purpose, but to protect. I should warn you though: they don't like being scryed on. In any event, if you can wear them safely, the Order will acknowledge them as yours, and I am empowered to say 'keep them.'"

She really wanted to press him, see what else he would apologize for, but decided to let it go at that. "Good night, Sir Ilvastarr," she bade him. "Perhaps we shall speak again on the morrow?"

"I look forward to it, Miss Lysara."

There was an impish giggle as soon as the paladin was out of sight, and Imoen - whom Lysara suspected had never moved in the first place - sprang back into sight. "Lys's got a boooy-friend," the younger woman teased, "and new toys for me to try out divination spells on!"

"Im, try and be serious for a change…" Lysara protested weakly, knowing her cheeks were afire.

"Being serious is boring," Imoen countered. "I've had quite enough of that over the last couple of weeks without grabbing for more, thank you very much. Anyway, let's have a looksee here…"

Lysara didn't even bother trying to keep the bracers out of Imoen's hands. She just followed her inside and sat down on the first open cot with a yawn. Imoen was still poking and prodding the bracers when sleep claimed her.

[-]

The dawn was still hours away yet when Lysara jerked awake, a particularly pungent odor dragging her mind from the depths of sleep. She came up retching, coughing and gagging at the fumes that seemed to be permeating the whole of the cabin. She bolted to the door and encountered the drow, the druid, and four female soldiers clogging up the entrance as each tried to get through first.

"By every god and their mothers, what the in the abyss was that?" Lysara demanded when they made it out into sweet, fresh air.

"Umm… sorry," Imoen said when she could finally speak. "They didn't like me poking around their enchantment structure."

"What are you… talking about?" the drow demanded through a cough, wiping her eyes. "I thought we were under attack again!"

"I was checking out the bracers that Adjantis gave to Lysara… wanted to make sure they weren't cursed, ya know? They're not, by the way. And the bloody things set off a stinking cloud when I tried to take a peek at what they could do."

"You must be the most inept excuse for a wizard I've ever met," Viconia sneered, once again haughty and self-assured, now that she wasn't choking. "And I have known a lot of magi in my days."

If Imoen was hurt by the completely unsubtle stab, she didn't show it. Even Lysara couldn't tell what was behind her friend's eyes as she looked at the drow with a quiet little smirk on her face and no vocal reply. Jaheria uttered a short incantation, and the wind picked up, blowing the whole cloud away from the caravan. "That should take care of the cloud, and the smell as well," the druid said. "Those bracers, whether or not they're hers, are obviously ancient and powerful. And they seem to dislike being scryed upon. The most logical course of action is to simply put them on and see what happens, or else simply give them back and forget about them."

Lysara knew that the druid was right… again. And it infuriated her… again. She stalked in, right over to Imoen's bed, and thrust her left arm into one of them, crossing the strands that she knew would hold them closed, if they were part of it.

The soft layer molded itself to her forearm, and the metal part started to glow, growing hot for just an instant before shrinking to the correct size to fit her. As long as the strands were crossed, and she suspected that only she could un-cross them, it seemed glued to her arm. It was light and comfortable, and obviously very well made. The other brace did exactly the same thing.

"We need to see about getting you some sort of hauberk," Jaheria said as she settled back down for the night. "Chain mail, I think, from your fighting style."

Lysara shot her a curious glance, and the druid laughed. "You think perhaps that I do not care for your safety, child?" she asked. "You are a dear departed friend's daughter, adoption aside. And you are a good person, if a touch innocent and naive."

"I'm a grown woman, Jaheria," Lysara reiterated crossly.

"Yes, I know that. But there are dangers, and wonders, in the world of which you know nothing. If I am… occasionally overbearing, it is because I wish to protect you from them. I… apologize."

The last came out as a mutter with the druid averting her eyes, and Lysara saw Imoen, out of the corner of her eye, lift her book up unreasonably high as she turned to a random page and started reading. Coincidentally the book blocked the druid's view of her grin. "Sorry?" Lysara said. "I don't think I heard that."

"Yes you did, you little…" Jaheria snapped, visibly straining to withhold whatever insult she'd prepared. "I rarely admit that I'm wrong, and never twice in one breath. Take the apology or leave it, but it won't come again any time soon."

"Sorry. I accept your apology, Jaheria," Lysara said, feeling a bit chagrined at her own behavior. "And I admit… a few things I've done recently have been strictly because they went against your… 'advice.' I'll try not to let myself get carried away like that again."

Jaheria considered her for a moment. "I'll choose to believe that came from you and not the massive dose of alcohol which must even now be pouring through you," the druid said.

"When are you going to believe it doesn't affect me?" Lysara asked.

"Drink a dwarf to the tavern floor, then if you're still sober, I'll believe you."

"There was a dwarf who came by Candlekeep a while back. Old Winthy actually had to stop serving booze 'cuz that guy drank his entire stock – paid for it and everything – in one night. I literally saw him guzzle a whole keg of beer without stopping for breath once," Imoen declared with her usual mirth-filled tone as she put her book away again.

"I am not surprised to learn of humans rolling around with dwarves on the tavern floor," Viconia interjected as she sat cross-legged on her own cot. "I hadn't thought even _darthiir_ would stoop that low though."

"You do realize if we say no, that Lysara will leave you on the side of the road, right?" Jaheria asked the drow.

"Take me as I am, or not at all," the dark elf retorted. "I'm sure even a half-breed like you understands at least that much of pride."

"Why are you so intent on accompanying us, anyway?" the druid pressed.

Viconia shrugged. "It seems an amusing diversion, and the goddess insinuated to me that it could prove worth my while. I also see a priestess who didn't even know how to manage her power levels this morning, and feel oddly compelled to teach her the basics."

"The basics as taught in Arach Tilinith?"

The drow cackled at that as if Jaheria had made a grand joke. "I hail from Ched Nasad, not Menzobaranzan," she informed them after a moment. "I have only set foot within the Spider Queen's high temple twice in my life. But I swear on my goddess's name: even if she had been born a drow, she would not survive ten minutes under Mistress Baenre's curriculum. Likely not even one."

"Baenre?"

"Triel Baenre, first daughter of House Baenre, which is the first House of Menzobaranzan. Mistress of the Academy, Mistress of Arch-Tilinith, Mistress of Teir Brache, High Priestess of the Lolthite Sisterhood," she said dismissively. "At least, that is what she was when last I was in Menzobaranzan the Mighty. That was some fifty years ago, and may very well have changed by now."

"Do you miss your home?" Lysara asked, trying to be sympathetic.

"What does it matter?" Viconia retorted. Lysara thought she detected a hint of sadness behind the woman's veneer of haughty indifference, but she couldn't be sure. "I am an apostate now. If I come into the sight of a Lolthite of any significance, she will know instantly what I am, and likely spend years killing me. I did no less when my sister was found to worship Eilistraee."

Lysara had absolutely no idea what it was about the drow woman that she liked, but it was there. "You tortured your own sister?" she asked quietly. Everything she learned about the drow as a race made her like them less.

"Our ways are not yours, girl," Viconia sighed as she leaned back. "The will of the Spider Queen is absolute in any drow city. Her judgments are law, enforced through the ruthlessness of the women who serve her. Putting loyalty to anyone or anything before your loyalty to Lolth is sacrilege. Sacrilege is punished by death, at the gentlest."

"Why did you turn against her worship then, if you were raised and conditioned to hold it above your own wellbeing?"

Viconia lifted her head again, considering Lysara, visibly weighing her question in her mind. "I think that I need to reverie," she replied after a time, "preferably without a stinking cloud going off. We have an early start on the morrow, and I expended a great deal of energy today." She closed her eyes where she sat, her back against the wall, and looked almost like she was asleep. She recognized the way she was sitting as Reverie, and wondered once more how it was done. She lay back down again and not another word was spoken. She fell asleep some time later still wondering, not for the first time, what it was to be an elf, what it was that set her race apart from others.


	9. Nashkel

Lysara waited, still as a statue, in the forest. Her only real friend was behind her while she had two cannonfodder henchmen on either side, just in case her prey decided to take a different route or go around the clearing instead of through it. She didn't even know how or why she knew that Gorion and his ward would come this way, only that they would.

It was one of her Father's gifts, she supposed. One had to be able to find their prey in order to murder them, after all.

"Why bother with the boy?" her friend asked, not for the first time. "He's nothing, just a library-raised little spoiled brat.

"I will bother with him because I want to kill him," Lysara answered calmly. How was it that she had been raised by that abusive bastard that had made her watch her mother's death… among the least of the things he'd done to her… while that _boy_ got to grow up with actual love and a parent that kept their hands off of him? It infuriated her, it made her want to kill not only this pair, but her so-called father as well. Patience… patience… soon she would feed the bastard's soul to her dead father, when the time was right. "It is my father's work."

"Come away. Let's just get going to our next stop. We'll be late if we tarry much longer."

"Just a little longer," Lysara insisted. "Did you know that I can remember being in the Temple? I remember watching, helpless, as my mother started to carry me up those steps. If that man had been a few minutes later, I wouldn't be here now, and likely neither would his precious ward. Perhaps that suits you, my 'friend?'"

"You know I would do anything for you," her friend insisted.

"Then don't – touch – that – boy," she reiterated her earlier order. "He is mine. Quiet now…"

"…shelter soon," Gorion's voice, familiar since the meeting she'd attended earlier that night. Had she realized he was already with Tethtoryl, she would have refused the headmaster's summons. Weeks of avoiding letting the old man _and _the brat see her undone… at least either that encounter or her hounds had provoked him into flight. She didn't know and didn't care which. The old man paused about halfway through the clearing, the boy – if someone that large could be called a mere boy - a few paces behind him. Had he spotted her? How could a mere human have done so? "Prepare yourself, we are in an ambush."

"You're perceptive for an old man," Lysara said, keeping her voice low. Men liked it when she spoke softly, and they usually did as she wished when she made them like her, unless she was asking her 'father' to not do this or that to her. Casually sauntering out of the trees that she'd thought were concealing her mere moments ago, she stopped a half-dozen paces in front of him and presented herself in her shiny black, form-fitting armor. As much as she hated covering her face, she'd even consented to wearing a leather head wrap tonight, just in case the boy got away. "You know why I'm here: hand over your ward an no one will be hurt. Maybe I can even… do you a favor or two."

"You're a fool if you believe I would trust _your_ benevolence," Gorion replied, shifting his staff in front of him and gesturing with his other hand. The boy, who was now withdrawing back the way they'd come, would have to wait until his foster-father had been dealt with. The mage might actually be able to hurt her, though he'd certainly waste a spell or two taking out her ogre henchmen first. That was why she'd brought them, after all. And her friend was supposed to have taken the shot and killed the man already. "Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, old man," Lysara apologized with just a hint of sarcasm and a gesture at her friend.

She heard the sound of a crossbow firing, and let out an annoyed growl as the bolt sailed through the air a foot above and a pace to the left of Gorion, arcing towards the boy instead of the old man. She didn't pay attention to what, if anything, the bolt hit, and instead drew, darting towards Gorion, who sent a bolt of lightning at one ogre, a sphere that she recognized as a sleep spell in her friend's direction, and an acid arrow at the second ogre before she'd even managed to cross half the space between them.

She made it another two steps before the magic started slamming into her. Her left bracer absorbed the first spell, a fireball, while her right nullified the icy prison that tried to form around her. Gorion wasn't only good, he was fast, she had to give him that much.

He was worthy prey.

The magical ring on her left hand glowed as she invoked its power, forming a shell around her that would repel most forms of lesser magic. Then he simply wasn't there between one step and the next as he finished another incantation, and no less than five spells hit her simultaneously. She spared only a moment to wonder how he'd done that before she realized her sphere had been overloaded, and only her amulet saved her from being disfigured by an acid arrow.

She spotted her prey, once again a dozen steps away, and didn't even bother trying to close the distance. She just drew her dagger and threw, following in its wake and charging after it. This made no sense. He was an old man; he shouldn't be this hard to kill. He deflected the thrown knife with his staff and threw a magic missile at her a moment later. Invoking her boots, she just took the hit on her armor – she had little in the way of defense against straight-out arcane attacks – and charged, far faster than normal.

That was the look she loved to see. His face turned from surprise to abject terror, and understanding that he was about to die. That look, in the last moments of a life, told an observant person what the man's true character was. Gorion was… a good man who loved his child. She didn't think she could have hated him more.

He parried her first strike, which was alright with her. It was a feint anyway. Her roundhouse kick, enhanced with the additional speed granted by her boots, caused the most delicious sound of cracking ribs, and the old man crumpled sideways. She straddled his chest, pinning his arms with her knees in an instant and pressed her dagger to his throat.

"Please…" he said softly. "Take my life, but spare my sun."

"How about… no," she replied with a sneer she knew he couldn't see. Dropping her sword, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and made sure he couldn't move his head. "I've only one question for you before you die, Gorion. Why did you save him and not me?"

"I would have saved all of your kin, if I could have," he told her, which only made her feel angry enough to end him quickly. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?" she screeched in his face before rearing back and stabbing her blade into his throat. "You're sorry? I only wish I had time to make you _truly_ sorry for the fate you consigned me to."

Over and over again she thrust her blade into the already dead man's body before she pried herself up. She scanned the trees very, very carefully, and screamed again when she saw nothing, not even a residual heat-print.

She hated disappointment. And since she couldn't get to _him_, she just _had_ to make sure that some kind-hearted priest couldn't undo the damage she'd just done. "I'll have your blood, you hear me?" she screamed out as she continued mutilating the corpse. "His fate will be pleasant compared to yours!"

Absolutely fuming, she sheathed her weapons and stalked over to where her 'friend' lay, fast asleep. She kicked that 'friend' in the side until they woke up and started moving before they could even fully rouse. Being late to her next appointment would throw off her whole timetable, and that would raise questions she _really_ didn't want asked, let alone answered.

"This is but a fragment of the power you will hold," that disembodied voice intoned, "when you learn…"

[-]

It was the worst dream yet. Why had she dreamed that she was the one who killed Gorion? And what was that bit about a temple? She had no memories of her mother at all. Lysara awoke, not remembering where she was for a few moments, but refusing to let loose the scream that had built within her. She came bolt upright with a yelp, looking around and panting in terror at her surroundings. She was the first one awake for once, and made it to her feet, almost reaching for her swords before her mind kicked in.

Her father's gift… she remembered her nightmare-self thinking that, though details were slipping away from her, and good riddance. Still, there was something there, something that was worth looking at. And so she clung to the details, like trying to grab hold of tiny fish with her bare hands. Who had 'her friend' been? She tried to examine that first, but the person's voice, even their gender, let alone their face eluded her. All she knew was that they'd been approximately the same size.

The boy… she got a better impression of him, though he hadn't spoken, and she hadn't even gotten a good look at him, just his heat silhouette. He'd been huge, and why was that thing about a meeting tickling her mind…

"Are you alright?" Jaheira asked kindly.

Lysara gave a start, looking at the druid in surprise as she sat down next to her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You look as if you've seen the worst thing your mind could conceive," the druid told her in a comforting voice.

"I dreamt… I dreamt it was me," Lysara said quietly, looking down at the floor as she wrapped her arms around her knees and not bothering to dislodge Jaheira's hand.

"Dreamt what was you?" Jaheira pressed.

"That… I killed father," she whispered.

"Do not blame yourself, child," the druid counseled. "Gorion's death was not of your making."

"No, you don't understand. I didn't dream that I caused it, I dreamt that I _did_ it. He was protecting a large man I couldn't see, and I killed him just because he was between…"

"You blame yourself, falsely, and your mind conjured a scenario that played upon your fear that you are truly to blame," Jaheira cut in. "Tell me of that night, every detail and leave nothing out. Begin when the sun set."

She did as requested, retelling of how Imoen had startled her in her room, and given her the pair of boots that even now sat at the foot of her cot. She got as far as knocking on Tethtoryl's door before she just froze, the flow of words stopping with just one whisper of, "Koveras."

"I beg your pardon?" Jaheira said, asking for clarification.

"Koveras. When I met with father that night, before he gave me these blades, he was with the headmaster of Candlekeep. But there was another man there, easily the biggest I've ever seen. Tethtoryl called him 'Koveras' and… I remember his eyes most of all, but that voice… It was him! He was the man in the armor!"

She was getting excited, her voice gaining in volume and pitch as she continued, and a couple of the soldier women stirred and looked at her through bleary eyes. She apologized and one woman just put her head back down.

"So you have a name for your enemy," Viconia's voice came from the exact opposite direction that Lysara had been looking. She whipped her head around, and caught the tail-end of Jaheira doing exactly the same. "This man that killed your father… this is the mistake you spoke to me of?"

The drow had touched a nerve. "My history is my own, drow," she retorted hotly.

"Perhaps a trade then?" the drow offered. "I will elaborate on my failure if you elaborate on your own."

Lysara chewed that over for a few moments, Jaheira oddly staying quiet as she studied the drow. "Another time, perhaps," she said after a few moments. "I have spoken of it more than I care to of late."

The drow shrugged indifferently, and went back to her reverie.

"We will discuss this further when we have more privacy," Jaheira told Lysara, before getting up and getting ready for the day.

[-]

Uneventful days passed before the small town of Nashkel finally came into view. Adjantis still either didn't notice, or was ignoring, Lysara's attempts to flirt with him, and grew progressively ruder in response to her persistence. Khalid and Jaheira were still being their usual, overprotective, standoffish selves, though the druid finally seemed to be relaxing a little. Lysara also found, much to her boredom, that the common men refused to compete with or wager against her again. In fact, the man who she'd drunk under the table outright avoided her entirely, always triggering a wave of pointing and laughing from his comrades.

She didn't make a single effort to try and mend a fence with the man, always remembering his insinuations when she saw him. Imoen usually had her nose glued to her book, and her spells were rapidly growing in power under the studies that she was conducting of it. The Thayvian mage had apparently had a vast supply of spell components on him, and Imoen took great delight in using many of them to increase her own skill; only on spells which caused no harm to anything, fortunately, and she never tried to polymorph anything.

But even Imoen needed a break every now and then, as much as she seemed to love studying magic. While they were still approaching the outskirts of Nashkel she was rifling through the dead Thavian's scroll case – she'd already produced a number of wonderfully useful items from the bag of holding - and just froze. "Lysara, Jaheira, Adjantis!" she called out, "C'mere you guys. Now'ish would be good!"

Lysara brought her horse up close, alongside where Imoen was perched excitedly on the very edge of the seat she was occupying as she haphazardly stuffed everything back approximately where it was supposed to be, except for one folded cloth she had pulled from the case. "What's up?" she asked.

"Just a sec," she replied, gathering her things and dropping down to the ground. "C'mon, I really don't think I should go shouting this."

Lysara dismounted and was soon joined by their curious companions.

"What is it?" Jaheira asked grumpily, as she always did when she had been unsuccessful in trying to get something – usually her reason for coming with them – out of Viconia. She was echoed shortly thereafter by Adjantis.

"Look, portal magic – what I understand of it anyway – requires that a mage knows both where he is and where he's going intimately," Imoen informed them, pausing to brush a lock of her hair from her face.

"What of it?" the Paladin asked testily.

"So, by intimately I mean he has to know where he is, what his destination looks like, and…" she trailed off as she produced a map of the Southern Sword Coast with several large X marks, all in the deep wilds and each of them numbered.

"And where is it," Lysara finished with a whisper.

"So… we know where they are?" Adjantis asked.

"If we can get the right number out of one of the prisoners, assuming they even knew what the number was," Imoen agreed.

"They may not, but we've been leaning on them for their camp's location," Adjantis replied. "They'll know the general area. There are twelve locations marked on that map, and ten prisoners. If we just 'mention' one of those locations to them, or even in front of them, their reaction might tell us if it's the right location or not."

"Then what? Send an army to the next location on the list?" Lysara asked.

"The Grand Dukes would be very interested in dispatching the lot of them. Even Lord Nasher of my home city of Neverwinter has an interest in keeping this trade route open. An army might very well be possible."

Lysara took the map from Imoen, who made no move to stop her, folded it again, and handed it to Adjantis. "Our part in that section of the troubles is over… for now, at any rate. If we're seen to have come all this way only to turn aside, it will raise suspicion, and the task still needs looking into anyway. We _have_ to continue to the mines now that we've come this far. The job of rousing this army against the bandit camp then falls to you, Sir Ilvastarr."

"Do you not wish my sword arm to aid you in the mine?" he asked. Maybe her imagination was playing with her but she thought he sounded truly concerned.

"You have the Order's influence behind you, and the Dukes will listen to you because of it. Besides, one can't always have what they wish for," she replied, acutely aware of him making her blush again.

"Yes, I am very much aware of that," he replied. "Forgive me, Madame. I fear I have treated you ill. May I speak to you alone a moment?"

"Of… of course," she answered, gesturing for the others to move off and waited for them to do so. "Yes?"

"I fear that I've somehow given you the wrong impression, milady. Make no mistake, you are a… an amazing woman… anyone who has watched you practicing with bow or blades or spellwork would be hard-pressed in that alone to contradict me. And then there's your sheer beauty…"

"Thank you," she replied, unable to contain a smile and a small giggle.

"However, I don't believe my wife would appreciate matters as you… appear to believe they stand," he finished as he took a step backwards, away from her.

She felt like she'd been punched stupid. Or maybe that she'd been being dumb from the start. Of course he'd have to be married already. A full knight, handsome and so impressive; she would – in fact she'd tried to – snatch him up in a heartbeat. She tried to tell herself that she couldn't blame his nameless, faceless woman for having beaten her to it.

She couldn't bring herself listen to herself this time.

"Oh," she said, her smile dropping off her face as she avoided his eyes. "I think that perhaps… I've been acting a touch foolishly. I… I thank you for your honesty."

He touched her chin, prompting her to look up at him. "I truly am sorry. I was attempting to put you off by being boorish to you when I should have been honest from the start…"

"If you'll excuse me, I believe my party is ready to depart," she said suddenly, trying to suppress a sudden flash of anger as she turned and strode off. And she felt even grumpier when he didn't even try to ask her to stop. She leapt up on her horse lightly and heeled her into motion without waiting.

Imoen, apparently foreseeing Lysara's outburst, caught up to her first. "Dumped you, huh?" she asked as she drew alongside.

"Worse. Married."

"Ouch."

"To be f-fair, I don't believe he f-flirted or e-encouraged you e-even once," Khalid spoke up as he caught up to them.

He just un-caught-up to them when he saw the looks on their faces as they glared at him, allowing his stallion to fall back. Why didn't men ever understand?

Before she could say another word, however, Viconia spoke. Lysara had actually forgotten that the Drow would be tailing them for a time. "I do not understand," she said. "You find this male pleasing, yet you hesitate to take the pleasure you wish from him. Why?"

Lysara slowed her horse to a walk, twisting in the saddle to consider to dark-skinned woman. "Does the word 'monogamy' have no place in your culture?" she asked.

"I have heard this word since coming to the surface, but I do not understand it," the drow answered.

"Drow consider males to be more like pets than companions," Jaheira supplied, "petted, played with, and replaced."

"I see," Lysara said. "So Viconia, supposing you were 'back home' and everything was as it had been in your life… if you 'found a male pleasing' and another woman 'took the pleasure she wished' from him, how would you react?"

She visibly bristled. "That would depend upon our relative statuses," she answered. She certainly didn't sound like she was indifferent to it, as Lysara had half-anticipated. "If she was of lesser status than I, there are a number of appropriate thanks I could level upon her. If her status was greater, I would have to be more creative, and more subtle."

"But you wouldn't like it," Lysara pressed. "Would you?"

"No," the drow admitted. "I find it strange though. I had always been told that males ruled the surface. Your words make it sound as if it is women who are truly feared, as it should be."

"Men like to think they're in charge," Imoen put in.

"We let them think that," Lysara added with a snicker, twisting to make sure that Khalid wasn't in earshot. That got a small little smirk out of Jaheira and a look out of the drow that was half appraising and more than half approving. "Well, most of us do most of the time, anyway."

"Ah, so the matron tugs the webs from the shadows, instead of out in the light for anyone to target her," the drow commented.

Lysara rubbed her nose before answering. "In our culture… how do I put this… we commit to a single person for the whole of our lives. And if that love, that commitment, or the trust that goes with it is betrayed, well then you need to step lightly and get out of our way."

"That is putting it simplistically," Jaheira put in with a glare at the drow. "But essentially correct."

Viconia made a dismissive sound. "Trust is for the foolish, and the dead," she replied as if by rote.

"Really? So if I said that I trust you to do what you think is best for you, would I be foolish?" Lysara asked.

"That's to be expected," the woman answered. "I am drow. You surfacers can cling to 'trust' and 'love' if you wish. They are weak, the weakest of all emotions."

For some reason Lysara found herself wanting to help this woman see a different way, if not a better way. "It must be hard, living a life always looking over your shoulder," she offered as they passed into the town proper, passing a stable, complete with a yokel ogling them. "Never able to relax for fear that someone will plant a dagger in your back…"

"Easy lives breed easy prey. Life in the Underdark is hard, yes. But we are stronger for it. I am stronger for it."

"So strong that you have to attach yourself to random travellers just to survive?" Lysara pointed out. "If you, a drow whom I presume has at least a century's experience, fought me, a twenty'ish year old surface elf, who do you think would win?"

"You have power with your god, and skill with your blades. But there are many, many things you do not know of, _dalhar_. Oh, one day you will have the power _and_ the skills needed to challenge me. But that is not this day," the drow replied. "Let me see if I can put this in terms you can appreciate… you know how to swing your god's power around, but your handling is clumsy. You don't yet know how to parry or block, let alone riposte. Who is it that has been teaching you your spells, anyway? You claim that you awakened to your deity but recently, but I have seen you cast a modest variety of spells as you practice."

"No one teaches me my spells," Lysara answered. "They just pop into my mind." That made the drow do a double take, and Lysara pressed. "What?"

"Not a priestess at all then," the drow said quietly. "You seem to have been chosen by your god instead. That… alters the situation substantially."

"And does it change your opinion of my earlier question?"

"Favored souls are a rarity in the lands of my birth…" She trailed off and looked sulky as Lysara turned to her again. "I do not wish to converse any further," she said after a few moments' quiet scrutiny.

"That's a yes," Imoen whispered to her. "I think that she gets a few of your points, and just doesn't wanna admit it."

"Speak when your opinion is asked for, surface mouse!" Viconia snapped.

"Yeesh, lighten up," Imoen replied with a flippant grin and a roll of her eyes.

"Stay close to us," Lysara whispered to Viconia to change the subject. "There's no telling how the common folk will react to… you. But we will protect you if we can."

"Perhaps you should worry more for them, instead," the drow replied with clipped, haughty tones before muttering something in her native tongue.

"We came here to meet the mayor of Nashkel, a man by the name of Berrun Ghastkill. He will have all the local information we need," Jaheira supplied when Viconia had deliberately dropped back behind the group. The drow was looking at Lysara in a most speculative manner, a light of understanding in her eye when she twisted to look at her.

"Well, I don't know where he is. Lead on," Lysara replied. For some reason that made the older woman look grumpy again, but she did as Lysara bade.

For the most part, Lysara just followed, smiling and chatting nonsense with Imoen, well aware of the drow behind her, feeling the older elf's studious gaze on her back. And she ignored that quiet study completely. It would take effort, penetrating a lifetime of indoctrination, but she thought she could see a raw gem beneath the oily black surface. She just wouldn't be able to tell if it was a diamond or obsidian or something in between until she could sift past the murk that was blocking her from seeing it clearly.

"Ah, there he is," Jaheira said after a little while of wandering and asking if anyone knew where the man was. She was pointing at a tall, heavyset man in the latter half of his middle years. He had tanned skin, and thinning – nearly bald – hair with nearly more grey than brown left in it, and sharp blue eyes. But Lys could tell by the way he moved that he wasn't one to be underestimated. He was standing in the lane speaking to red-robed wizard that Lysara couldn't discern more about than the fact that he was male. Everything else about him was shrouded.

When the mayor spotted their party, he made a dismissive gesture to the red-clad mage and stepped around him. Lysara had been just about to look away from him when he turned, following the mayor with his eyes. And then she saw his tattoos.

Another Thayvian.

"Jaheira," Lysara said in a cautionary voice.

"I see him. Give no reaction that you would not to another of the Red Scourge, and do not mention his… associate."

"Well it's about time you showed up," the Mayor said to Jaheira when he got in range. "I was starting to think you weren't coming."

"We are always where we say we will be, though regrettably we are not always on time. Pressing personal matters came up on our way here," the druid replied.

The man eyed each of them in turn, frowning when Viconia turned away from him enough to hide her face beneath her hood. "Motley stragglers you've picked up, eh? Two greenhorn girls what look so wet behind the ears they may've just got out the bath, and one what won't show her face?"

"They are friends of ours, and much more capable than they look," Jaheira answered. "Lysara Vantress, Imoen Catari, and Viconia… uh…" She introduced each of them in turn, hesitating when she didn't know the drow's family name.

"De'Vir," Viconia supplied.

"It's nice to meet you, sir," Imoen said followed almost immediately by Lysara. Viconia gave no such nod to pleasantries.

"Right," the mayor replied skeptically. "So what've we got here… a sun elf warrior, a half-sun-elf druid, a wood elf, a human girl, and a drow, eh? Sounds like the opening of a bad joke."

Lysara privately thought the man was right.

"If our choice of companions does not suit your approval, we could always focus on another endeavor elsewhere," the half-elf replied. "Or we can look into and potentially solve your major problem here. Which do you choose?"

"I meant no offense," the mayor replied. "Come with me, if you please. Right now I'll take any help I can get, experienced or no. Just so you know, I don't care what race any of you hail from. If you can help, I'll sing all of your praises."

"If you wish, you can wait at the inn, or come with us," Jaheira told Lysara, Imoen and Viconia as they dismounted.

"While a hot bath and a hotter meal sounds absolutely divine, I think I'll pass for the time being," Lysara replied.

"I think I'll go replenish our supplies and whatnot," Imoen volunteered. "I'll meet you guys at the inn after."

"I believe I will attend this meeting as well," Viconia said, more to Lysara than to anyone else.

"Don't forget torches," Jaheira said to Imoen.

"What for? There was a ring of infravision in that bag, and the rest of you can see in the dark already," Imoen replied with her usual grin.

"Oh. Never mind then."

[-]

They followed the mayor through the town and into a small building with a well-tended garden out front. The foyer - which they passed through hastily - was tastefully appointed and being dusted by a maid even then. The first door on the left led into an equally tasteful office that was, while less than opulent, still better than many merchants would have had. Moments after they passed through the door, while everyone was still getting settled, two maids appeared, one of which had been in the foyer, but both bearing refreshments without having been bidden that Lysara had detected.

"Thank you, that will be all," the mayor told them. They curtsied and left. "Now, to business…"

Lysara poured a glass of wine, and offered it to Viconia, who merely held out her hand in refusal. Shrugging, she drank it down. "I understand that there's some trouble in the mine," she said to Ghastkill. "Tainted ore coming up that no one can figure out… is that the extent of the problem?"

"I only wish it were," the man snorted. "We've missing men, as in they went in to dig and never came back out. If there was more'n one way into that mine, I might just say they'd run off. But there isn't, and their bodies are never found."

"I don't suppose you'd have a record of where those men were supposed to be when they disappeared, would you?"

"My foreman, out at the mine, would…" the man replied before turning to the druid. I thought I was dealing with you and your husband, Jaheira?"

"Lysara has not asked anything yet that I myself would not," Jaheira replied cautiously. "That said, has the situation changed any since we last corresponded?"

"Not much at all. We still can't find a blasted thing wrong with the ore or anything. Though we may have a new lead on whose doing it… miners are reporting 'little horned devils' – no, they won't be more descriptive than that - down in the lowermost reaches. They've only been seen twice what's been reported, but you never know. There's a few things odd what've been going on apart from that, though I can't see how they're related to the mine."

"What are they?" Lysara asked as she picked up a pastry. "I mean, it's worth hearing about. You'll never know what's connected and what's not if you never listen to it in the first place." She was just hoping he'd volunteer something about that Thayvian he'd been talking to when they first spotted him.

"Well, there's been an unusual number of kobolds on the loose in the local countryside of late. We almost had to cancel the fair after they burned down one of the local farms. And then there's the former guard captain. He went berserk and slaughtered his family and at least a tenth of the guard before he made it out of town. There's a fairly large reward out for… well, never mind him.

"Last week I get this weird pair in here. A man and a woman, but they're not a couple as far as I can tell. Big man, kept calling the woman a 'witch' and glaring at anyone that tried to offer her a handshake. The woman had a funny accent and asked if they could lay low for a while from a Red Scourge that was chasing them. You probably caught sight of him on your way in.

"Edwin is the Thayvian's name. But he's little more than a pest. Don't get me wrong, I'm scared witless of the man. He just won't let me alone about Minsc and… Day-something. Sorry, but I just can't pronounce her name."

"Be cautious of the man," Jaheira warned, producing a ring from her pouch and setting it on the desk. "Do you recognize this?"

"It's a signet ring," Ghastkill said, picking it up to examine it. "Don't recognize the crest though. Why?"

"We took it from the remains of another Red Wizard that was assisting in a bandit assault to the north…" Jaheira began.

"Bah, Edwin is so caught up in this 'witch' and her big-man that he's blind to everything else around him," Ghastkill replied dismissively, tossing the ring back on his desk. "This guy's only the second Thayvian I've heard of in the region, lifetime total. I very much doubt that Thay has anything to do with the troubles."

"Do not underestimate the intricacies of the Red Wizards' plotting," another woman's voice came from what appeared to be a solid bookshelf, making everyone jump. "They are akin to, if not exceeding these 'zhents' I have heard about since coming north."

The bookshelf vanished, revealing another door that was wide open. In it stood a woman who Lysara didn't get more than a glance at before a large man, _almost_ as large as Koveras, stepped into view. He stooped a little to get through the door, giving her an excellent view of his bald head with a strip of blue painted on it. He was broad of shoulder and had a claymore strapped to his back.

"Stand and deliver," he declared in an accent that Lysara couldn't place, "that my hamster might have a better look at you." Right on cue, a cute little rodent – Lysara had always liked most rodents – appeared on the big man's shoulder with a loud set of squeaks that almost sounded like the critter was trying to talk.

"Calm yourself, Minsc," the woman said gently, stepping once more into view. She was dark of hair and skin and eye, and wore her hair in numerous tight braids that fell to the small of her back. And Lysara wouldn't have dared set foot out of doors in the 'dress' the woman was wearing. It's blue silk was low cut to begin with, but also had a tight bodice that pushed her cleavage up while emphasizing the curve of her hip, and a slit right side that bared nearly the whole of her shapely leg. She smiled at each of them. "Pray forgive our startling entrance, and my protector's… eccentricity; I am Dynaheir, from Rashaman. If you would allow it, I would have a closer look at that ring."

Jaheira started, but just held out the ring to her after a moment. The Rashemi witch did nothing other than look at it, not even taking it from her. "The man you took this from was no ally to House Oddesseron," she declared after a moment, "And thus he could not have been one of our pursuers."

"Can you say for certain if he was a mercenary or an agent here as part of an advanced force?" Lysara asked.

"I cannot," the woman answered. "But I can say with some certainty that this man I have never even laid eyes upon was an outcast. That ring is a brand which cannot be removed by its wearer so long as they live. Another Thayvian allying themselves with such an outcast is awarded one of their own. But I have diverted you from the topic at hand. You were saying?"

"Right, the iron," Ghastkill said, steering them back to the reason they'd come. "I don't know how much more I can tell you. I'll send word ahead that you're coming…"

"With your permission," Dynaheir addressed Lysara suddenly, "Minsc and I would join you as well."

Lysara blinked at that. "You would?" she asked. "Might I ask why?"

"My magic, and the skills of a Rashemi Berserker, could be of great use to you," the witch answered. "I have become acquainted with a few of the people here, and would not see them suffer more for whatever mad scheme is being conducted in the hereabouts. Besides, you seem a capable enough group. Capable enough, perhaps, that our skills combined could outmatch a Red Wizard should he come calling."

"What say you," Lysara asked the others, looking at Khalid, Viconia, and Jaheira in turn.

"I do not care," the drow replied quietly first. "Bring them or not, it makes no difference to me."

"A berserker c-could indeed be a p-powerful a-asset," Khalid put in. "What do you feel about the arrangement, Minsc?"

"I am but Dynaheir's protector," the large man replied, still glancing between each of them, but flitting most often in Viconia's direction. "I go where she goes, and shield her from harm, with Boo's help." He paused as the rodent moved closer to his ear, leaning towards the hamster. "Boo says we should go with you."

Lysara tried to take it with a grain of salt that the man appeared to be having conversations with his hamster. There were rangers with special familiars, after all. Perhaps this berserker was something akin to them?

Jaheira just glared at Lysara for some reason, probably irked that Dynaheir had asked her for permission instead of the druid. She parsed her lips and shrugged. "At the very least, Imoen would be delighted to have another mage in the group to give her tips," she said at last.

"I suppose that settles that then," Lysara said as she stood. "Will you be joining us at the inn?"

"We have our own lodgings well away from Oddesseron's eyes and ears," Dynaheir replied. "We will make our way to the mines on our own and await you there."

"Thank you for your hospitality, sir," Lysara addressed the mayor. "And I look forward to working with the two of you. New friends are always welcome in my book."

"That is a drow," Minsc said, his hand raising for his hilt over his shoulders. "Boo is sure of it. Stand back Dynaheir!"

"Hold!" Lysara barked, moving between the two of them. "If you have an issue with Viconia, you have one with me."

"Minsc, stand down," Dynaheir ordered again. "I trust this Lysara, and if she trusts the drow, so will I… until she proves the girl wrong in it." She took him by the arm and drew him back through the door that they'd come in through. "If you'll excuse us," she called back.

"I apologize for my behavior, Mayor Ghastkill," Lysara said to the mayor with a small bow. "I'll just show myself out."

"T'was the berserker who threaten your… companion. Your reaction was justifiable. Gods' speed."

"We move out at first light," Lysara said as soon as they were out the door, astounded that she still heard no objections. She was starting to feel more confident in making suggestions and – when necessary – giving orders. "Let's see what Imoen's gotten for us, and then I want that nice hot bath."

"Such a pity you won't be meeting up with your little friend," a woman said as she stepped into their path. "I don't give a rat's ass about the rest of you. Give us the elf, and there'll be no trouble. Fight, and you all die."

Clad as she was from head to toe in armor, it was difficult to tell anything about her apart from the fact that she was slightly taller than Lysara, and of too significant a build to be an elf. She already had a Morningstar and shield at the ready, and in a fighting crouch as she blocked their path.

"We?" Lysara asked, peering to either side, and then behind. "There's only one of you."

She let out a disturbing chuckle. "Oh no, there's two of us. Fight, and that pretty little morsel you called Imoen will have a new air hole in her throat. My friend has a dagger to her neck as we speak."

Pure rage filled Lysara, and she did… something. She wasn't even sure what it was, but the bitch in front of her shrieked, even as she stopped moving, standing there still as a statue. Lysara walked up to the woman quite calmly and pulled the weapon out of her hand, tossing it aside.

"Listen now, and listen well. If you've harmed her in the slightest… where is she?" Lysara demanded.

"Dead," the girl replied.

Lysara wasn't even aware that her dagger was in hand until it pressed against her assailant's throat. Just a little more pressure… Jaheira had hold of her wrist, shaking her head silently.

Not silently. Lysara realized that the druid's lips were moving, but that some tone was blocking her from hearing her. Squeezing her eyes shut, Lysara backed off, shaking her head, and the sound gradually cleared.

"…thinking of?" Jaheira finished just as Lysara's hearing returned. "She just told you that she was bluffing!"

"She… did?" Lysara asked, still shaking her head and rubbing her brow. Her fingers came away wet from sweat. She dropped her knife and took a step back, and then another. "I… I couldn't hear anything."

"We will discuss it later, child," Jaheira replied, tying a length of rope around one of their attacker's wrists. "Khalid, take her other wrist. Lysara, release your spell. And you… If that girl is dead, I will take your head myself."

"I swear, I was bluffing. I don't even know who this 'Imoen' is," the woman sobbed.

Lysara wasn't surprised to find that her dagger had returned to its sheath once again. Disregarding the others, she sprang off, flat-out sprinting towards the inn.


	10. Reverie

Chapter 9  
>Reverie<p>Lysara sprinted into the inn, throwing the door open and drawing every eye in the place as she looked around the common room and stepping further in. Worry was building in her, over Imoen, and over herself…<p>

"Heya," Imoen called cheerfully from a table, completely devoid of a 'new air hole' or shopping goods, for that matter, though she had bought herself some more 'mage' looking robes – they were still in her favorite purple, and showed more of her chest than Lysara would of her own - and a quarter staff was leaning against the wall next to her. Her book was on the table in front of her, propped open as she ate and read it at the same time. "How did – _whoa._"

Lysara pounced her friend, hugging her tightly. "By Lathander, Imoen. I was scared I'd lost you, too," she whispered to her.

"Ease off, Lys. What are you talking about?" Imoen replied, trying to gently extract herself from her friend's grip.

Lysara took a moment to compose herself, then sat next to her and explained, quietly, about the bounty hunter and her threat. All trace of good humor evaporated out of Imoen long before she was done.

"Just be careful, Lys. I can handle myself, trust me. And I'm touched you were ready to… do that… because someone said they'd offed me, but promise me you won't, ever again. I don't want to see you degenerating into…" she paused and looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping, but leaned in close anyway, "one of your other… kin."

Lysara drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around them, though she was in a chair. "I want to be a good person, Im. But just then… I didn't even realize…"

"It would be a better idea not to discuss such things in a common room," Jaheria supplied, simply sitting at the table. "We will discuss this when we've a room."

"I got us two," Imoen said, back to her usual self. "That was a real feat since there're only four to begin with. You and your husband can have one, the rest of us girls will take the other."

"That was most considerate of you," Jaheria replied, "but I had intended…"

"Oh please. Go, enjoy laying in your husband's arms for a night. I don't think I've seen you two so much as hug since we met," Imoen insisted.

"Thank you, Imoen," the druid relented with a grateful smile.

"You're welcome."

"The woman you were just speaking of has been… incarcerated," Jaheria told Lysara. "Do not concern yourself over her further."

Imoen had apparently ordered them dinner as well. As soon as Khalid and Viconia has seated themselves, a large plate bearing a roasted duck and varying fruits and vegetables and such was deposited on their table. Dinner was a quiet affair. Imoen just looked thoughtful the whole time while Jaheira and Khalid were whispering to one another whenever the former wasn't looking at Lysara in a manner both considering and sad; Viconia never took her eyes off the younger elf. Lysara herself just turned inward and refused any attempt to engage her in conversation.

"You think you've got it bad, dearie," the waitress who brought their meal said, "Why we've gotta _live_ here. If war breaks between Amn and Baldur's Gate guess who'll be caught in the first salvo… us. Yeah you've got problems, but ours are worse, believe you me!" The woman was off before anyone could reply.

Lysara just stood up once she was full, which didn't take much. She didn't seem to have much of an appetite as she silently walked down the hall towards the women's bath. Before she'd even quite made it in, she witnessed Jaheria pulling Khalid quickly towards one of the guest rooms, apparently taking Imoen up on her offer without delay. That she was so aggressive… that way… was really no surprise to Lysara. After all, she'd been aggressive and domineering in almost every other way since they'd met.

Or maybe they were cloistering themselves up to discuss reconsidering the possibility of simply killing her. She might even welcome it, if her death meant that all this would just go away. Why did it seem to follow her around? Her passage certainly did seem to be sewing chaos. Koveras? Who was he? Why had he killed her father? Why did he want to kill her? These questions and a thousand more cycled through her mind as she undressed for the bath, joined by Viconia before she'd quite gotten her blouse unlaced and Imoen came in before she'd quite shimmied out of her trousers.

A piping hot bath after two weeks on the road – wherein she was lucky to have a chance to wash – felt glorious. Why was it that the stories of heroes and adventures that she'd always liked so much glossed over inconvenient points like not bathing and bland rations when you weren't running out of food or drinkable water? Soaking in hot water even managed to take the edge of her worry over… whatever had happened earlier. She'd been deaf to the world after that nameless woman had told her Imoen was dead… had she even said that? Was her cursed blood playing with her mind in an effort to have its own way? It was a morose and thoroughly depressing thought. Fortunately the three of them were alone, except when the maid came in – always knocking first – to see if they required anything else.

"So what do you think they're planning?" Imoen asked after they'd been soaking for a time.

"Hmm?" Lysara replied groggily.

"Well, I know what they said about… your father. But I just can't make myself believe them. You're too good a person to be… his… child."

"I don't know, Im. I've got some pretty dark shadows. I just try my best to keep them… y'know, hidden."

Viconia, who had been so quiet after slipping into the water that Lysara almost forgotten she was there, scoffed. "What do you know of darkness, _dalhar_?" the drow inquired contemptuously, "You grew up in a library surrounded by protectors who sheltered you from anything which would make me so much as shiver."

"Dalhar? What's that?" Imoen asked.

"It had better not mean 'child'," Lysara put in.

"And what exactly would make a drow 'shiver'?" Imoen continued before anyone could answer.

"I would tell you, but I know what to expect from Lysara to anyone who causes you harm," the drow replied, ignoring the vocabulary question. "I haven't seen anyone so protective of another they weren't 'with' before."

"What exactly does that mean?" Lysara asked.

"I doubt you would like the answer," Viconia replied evasively.

"I'm sure I wouldn't," Imoen replied, a touch of fear in her voice as she started cleaning herself more hurriedly.

"What?" Lysara pressed, picking up on… something… and feeling annoyed at the secretiveness.

"Have you never considered laying with another woman?" Viconia asked Lysara directly.

Lysara blinked, suddenly uncomfortable. "It's… something that's crossed my mind once or twice," she replied hesitantly, "but not something I'm likely to actually try."

Out of the corner of her eye, She saw Imoen looking near-panicked now as she started to furiously scrub herself down. What was wrong with her? Lysara had never seen her friend so scared-looking, except immediately after that crossbow bolt had been pulled out of Lysara's shoulder.

"Yes, I didn't think you were that kind," Viconia replied, laying back in their shared tub and closing her eyes. "The way your knees weaken for a good-looking male… especially that paladin. Why do you not just find one to amuse you for a time?"

"Our kinds do not treat sex so… irreverently," Lysara replied, squirming uncomfortably. "Being with someone is a sacred act that should only…"

"More surface platitudes," Viconia interrupted dismissively. "If you want something, someone, take it. Take them. That is the only way you will get what you desire. You feared the retribution of that paladin's… wife…" her mouth twisted distastefully around the unfamiliar word, "Yet it is unlikely that you and she would ever come face to face. I or any of my sisters thus enamored would simply do as we wished with him in the same situation."

"I didn't fear retribution. I feared hurting them when the truth inevitably came out. You would not even have cared, would you?" Lysara retorted, feeling disgusted.

"Why should I care what impact my actions hold over someone I will never meet; or someone who I will likely never meet again, for that matter?" the drow answered. "You seem to think I am some sort of 'good person' beneath the surface. I am drow. Do not forget it."

Imoen was shaking her head, looking a little more relaxed at least. Then she dunked it underwater to wet her hair, coming up and shaking it again. Viconia eyed her in an almost considering manner, like a woman trying to decide if the steak was done enough for her liking. Lysara didn't like it at all. Then she moved over next to Imoen and handed her a bar of soap and a wash rag, turning around wordlessly and pulling her hair around her shoulders and exposing her back to her.

"You… want me to wash your back?" Imoen asked timidly. Imoen was never timid.

"Of course. Why else would I behave this way?" the drow replied impatiently.

Imoen visibly swallowed before soaping the cloth up and starting to rub the drow's back with it.

"I thought you were a woman, not a mouse," Viconia commented, "Surely you've done this for others you've bathed with before?"

Imoen was actually blushing and cast frequent glances at Lysara, who was feeling increasingly uncomfortable at her friend's discomfort. She didn't understand it. "She's scrubbed mine before," Lysara volunteered, drawing an unappreciative glance from Imoen.

"I thought as much," Viconia replied. "Either you have a very delicate back, or she is holding back now for some reason. My bath attendants scrubbed harder that that when I was twelve. Perhaps you have not told your friend?" The last was directed at Imoen.

"Told me what?" Lysara asked, utterly bewildered when Imoen remained silent.

"That she doesn't enjoy a man's touch at all, of course," Viconia answered for her when Imoen didn't. "That she secretly craves the attentions of women. Likely she thought you would misinterpret that as a desire for _your_- Ah, that's better."

Imoen had started scrubbing harder, almost violently, and the drow seemed to like it. Lysara was just stunned, staring wide eyed at Imoen's face and finally understanding what Imoen had tried to tell her that night, when she'd confessed about her first time. "Is… that true, Im?" she asked.

Imoen just let the rag fall into the water and cleared her throat, blushing profusely. "I'm sorry, Lys. I never meant for you to find out like this. Or at all, really. And please don't think that I'm sitting here lusting after you, because I really do think of you as my sister and I know you're not… that we're not the same that way." She hesitated a few moments and then added, "You're not… weirded out by me now, are you?"

"Never, Im," Lysara replied with a genuine smile. "You're right, I don't think of women… any woman… that way. But I don't care if you do. It just spares me the trouble of finding you a boyfriend or worrying about you stealing one from me."

That made her friend relax, and smile again. "Why don't you worry about finding yourself one, first?" she quipped, which made Lysara splash hot water at her. "This time make sure he isn't married, hmm?"

The mirth lasted until Viconia turned around and reached for Imoen a moment later. "Uh, hey?" she asked, slipping away in the tub.

The drow smirked. "I assumed that you would be up for a little fun now," she answered. "Or do you not like having an audience?" The last was said with a pointed look at Lysara.

"I… don't… do… that… with just anyone," she answered hesitantly, stammering, and blushing again. "It goes back to what Lys was trying to get through to you earlier. I'm not the sort of woman who does… that… so easily."

"As you wish," the drow replied, slipping back to her corner of the tub. "Though I think I could show you quite a few things about how we could please each other. No? Very well then."

"Why… did you tell Imoen's secret?" Lysara asked a moment later.

"I am drow," she replied cryptically. "How I wish there was a masseuse on hand. I haven't been properly rubbed down in far too long."

"And you're… the same way she is?" Lysara asked curiously.

"Not exactly. I enjoy the company of both sexes," the drow replied in a strangely matter-of-fact manner given what they were discussing.

Privately, Lysara thought that the woman had thought that getting it out in the open would ultimately help improve their relationship. Or perhaps she was just being cruel and trying to provoke Imoen into washing her back more forcefully. Or maybe that the drow was more complex than she looked at a glance and had acted as she did for both reasons and more. She still couldn't decide if that was a diamond or a lump of coal she'd glimpsed, but was determined to keep poking until she figured it out. She wondered if Viconia even knew.

Perhaps she was simply being naive again. She didn't like how people – especially Jaheria – kept calling her that, but she knew that it was at least a little true. Maybe that's why she disliked it so much, but what was wrong with thinking people could be saved from their own darkness? She herself wanted very badly to be saved from hers.

"You acted as if you intended to protect me from the Rashemi… warrior earlier," Viconia said to Lysara. "Why?"

"Because I was going to protect you, if need be," Lysara answered.

A hint of confusion lit the drow's dark eyes as she studied Lysara's face. "Why?" she asked again after a few moments.

"I said I would," Lysara answered simply. "I am _not_ drow, Viconia. If I say I will do something, there's perhaps a better chance than what you're used to thinking of that I will do it for the exact reasons that I said."

"You believe that simply being _ibblith _means you will keep your word?"

"That's… not exactly what I meant. I know there are dishonest people on the surface. I'm not one of them. You can trust me."

"Trust is for the foolish, and the dead," Viconia reminded her. Or was she reminding herself? Her tone was somewhat less… convicted than it was the last time she'd said it. Lysara hoped that meant that she was making at least a little progress.

Lysara shrugged. "I guess I'm a fool then. I think I'm clean enough," Lysara said, standing up and reaching for a towel.

[-]

Lysara, clad for bed and with her daywear and weapons and such under her arm, was surprised when she learned that she wasn't alone on arriving at her room. Jaheria sat, clad in a dressing robe, cross-legged on one of the room's three beds.

"Sorry, wrong room," Lysara apologized.

"No it isn't," Jaheria replied quickly. "I wanted to speak to you privately before we retired for the evening."

"Is… everything alright between you and Khalid?" Lysara asked, settling down on the next bed. "If that's not too personal a question, that is."

"It's fine. You will know without question if you ask me something that I deem 'too personal' Lysara. Things between my husband and I are as 'alright' as they have been for some time," the druid answered with just a hint of sadness. "We are comfortable with one another, each needing naught from the other but company and support, aid and understanding where required. Sex is just a bonus."

"That sounds more like friendship with… uh, play rights than…"

"Enough. The time for us to speak privately is short, and you tread dangerously close to 'too personal.'"

"Jaheria… what did that bounty hunter say to me?" Lysara asked before the druid could speak further.

"Did you truly not hear?"

"No, and it scares me to no end," Lysara replied, sitting on the bed and trying to stop herself from shaking. "I wasn't even… I didn't know you were talking to me until you had hold of my arm."

"She begged for mercy and swore that she'd only been bluffing, after trying and failing to dispel your hold on her. You really do have quite a bit of power locked beneath the surface," Jaheria told her concernedly. "That your perceptions were so clouded… is troubling."

"No kidding," Lysara agreed, before shaking her head. "Hang power and hang my weapons. Maybe I should toss my it all away and just run off and become a hermit deep in some mountain range where there's no one to hurt and nothing to hurt them with. I can see it now, a nice little cabin…"

"That would solve none of your problems, least of all this 'Koveras' who tried to kill you. Make no mistake, he will try to do so again should a shadow of an opportunity be made to him. I do not believe that you and he can both continue as you are while the other is alive."

"I don't want to kill anyone," Lysara said quietly, drawing her knees up under her chin again. "Not even him. I just… I want to be left alone, you know? I want… I want a home, and man who wants me, who can love me in spite of… this… problem I have. I want kids and…"

"You want a life," Jaheria supplied, moving to sit next to Lysara and rubbing her back consolingly. "I can sympathize with that."

"You can?" Lysara asked.

"Think you that I do not want children? Khalid and I used to speak all the time of what we would do after our adventuring days were done… or at least mine, since age will doubtlessly claim me first. We too, wanted a home, and… and children. But… I am unable to bear any. An injury early in my career that I was lucky to live through," the druid admitted sadly before rallying. "Enough of that. I came because I wanted to say that I understand now why you wanted the drow to come along."

"Do you?" Lysara asked, glad for the change in topic.

"Yes, and it speaks to me of a foolish, naïve waste of time and effort. You want… no you _need_ to believe that anyone can be saved, regardless of their origins, or how dark their background," Jaheria told her, "And so you seek to 'save' that woman from herself. Lysara…"

"Wrong," Lysara interrupted. "It's a good idea, and one that I hadn't even thought of; but that isn't the reason. I don't even know what the reason is. But somehow, despite the way that most of what she tells me about her homeland or even herself disgusts me, and how I find her attitudes deplorable… I like her.

"Oh you're right about me wanting to save her, or at least get her to understand a point of view other than her own. But there's something there, something in her that… I don't know how to explain it. I don't think it's even in my vocabulary to do so."

Jaheria just stared at her, and shook her head. "You _like_ her?" she questioned incredulously. "I had not thought you _this _foolishly naive. She is _drow_, child. She is a creature of…"

"Carnage? Chaos? Darkness? Death? Murder incarnate?" Lysara supplied, cutting across the druid with a slight heat to her voice, but nowhere near the temper she'd always displayed back in Candlekeep. Her anger was still there, but it was… quieter, somehow, than it had been back then.

"You prove my point for me. She is nothing like you. She was raised to revel in darkness, debauchery and bloodshed. You were raised…"

"Enough," Lysara said, quietly but firmly. "She is nothing like me? You contradict yourself. You say that I am a good person, but you've just confessed to thinking that evil is in my nature, if not the whole of it. Would she be any different than I am if she were raised on the surface by… let's say for the sake of argument, worshippers of Eilistraee? Or how about in a church of Lathander? Or perhaps in Candlekeep?"

"Now who is contradicting themselves?" Jaheria retorted with an angry sniff even as she looked slightly embarrassed. "You are drawing parallels where none exist, and seeking similarities that would support the argument I have made, rather than your own. And you twist my words. She is a creature of darkness, raised to revel in that darkness. You are a creature of light, born _of_ darkness yes, but of light nonetheless. Any doubt of that vanished when Lathander started answering your prayers. And you were raised rightly, by a good man. You ask what she may have been like had she had your upbringing? She herself has already answered the question in reverse. Remember what she said about you and drow temples?"

"She said I wouldn't even last a minute under… whatever-her-name-was's curriculum," Lysara replied, much more calmly now. "Look… I don't… I honestly didn't think of that as a reason. But maybe you're right, a little at least. But you're also wrong. I refuse to believe that _anyone_ is beyond salvation, and I will never accept it when someone tells me that someone else _has_ to die or…"

She cut off when the door opened, and Imoen walked in, followed closely by Viconia. "Triel Baenre," the latter stated before she sat on the only unoccupied bed, cross-legged like Jaheria. "The Mistress of Arach-Tilinith when I was last in the Underdark was Triel Baenre."

"Huh?" Imoen asked a little perplexedly as she pulled off her robe and slipped under the covers behind where Jaheria sat. "I thought you'd be wrapped around your husband right now."

"I had to have some… private words with your 'sister.' Good night, ladies," Jaheria replied before slipping out of the room.

"Why do you sleep like some sun-blinded human?" Viconia asked after Lysara lay down.

"Well, it's what I know. I've slept every night of my life," she answered, turning over to face the dark-skinned woman.

"Did your parents not teach you reverie?"

"My father… the man I acknowledge as my father, was human. My mother died not long after I was born."

"You were raised by a human… interesting. And who was your… other father?"

"Perhaps I'll tell you, one day, if you stick around long enough," Lysara conceded. "I don't like to acknowledge that… that creature's existence, let alone my kinship with him. He is dead, and that should be the end of it." _But it's not_, she amended silently to herself, _it's only just starting, unless I miss my guess._

"Perhaps I could teach you… to reverie," the drow offered, eyeing her curiously. "You do not even know what it is that sets elves in general – and drow in particular – apart from humans and the other lesser ilk, do you? Like as not you believe that a longer life span and a set of pointed ears are all that makes us special and that underneath we are not so very different."

"Was that your idea of trying to be helpful?" Lysara asked, sitting up now.

The drow shrugged. "If I am to survive on the surface, I must learn the ways of the surface. Do you not agree? Besides, I did cause your friend discomfort earlier. I do not wish your ire; and so I make a small gesture to balance the scales. And then there is the fact that you interrupt my own rest when you awaken screaming from whatever nightmares plague you. Take it or leave it where it lay."

_She's has a convenient, pragmatic excuse for every kind act that she does, doesn't she?_ Lysara thought to herself. _And when she can't think of one she just hides behind the fact that she's drow. Does she even really know why she sometimes acts kindly? And just what is her real agenda?_

"You don't dream?" Lysara inquired, truly curious and more than a little excited at the though of escaping those horrific visions.

"No," the drown answered simply. "Not when we reverie, though they may still come when we're knocked unconscious."

"Alright, teach me," Lysara replied.

"Sit as I am," Viconia instructed. Lysara copied her posture, and Imoen sat up, looking at the two of them curiously. "Do not bother, human. I've yet to meet or hear of one of your kind capable of doing this. Close your eyes, Lysara, and relax your body. Focus on each muscle group in turn – in time more precise control will be available to you, but this is the basic form – and will each of them to relax. Begin with your feet and work your way up."

Lysara found herself relaxing as the woman instructed, feeling mildly uncomfortable as she realized some of her muscles were more tense than she'd thought. Those took longer to unwind, but eventually she was done.

The drow seemed to know when she was finished relaxing her body, for she continued the moment Lysara felt comfortably limp everywhere but her spine, which she kept stiff. "Envision your favorite place, at your favorite time of day. You are safe there, serene, resting at your leisure or frolicking at your pleasure. Breathe in and out in slow, measured breaths."

Lysara began to feel her fatigue slowly beginning to slip away, though she was still fully conscious, even if her senses were somewhat dulled by the experience.

"Now, will everything to stillness and empty your thoughts completely."

Lysara did as she was told, emptying her mind as if she were preparing for a fight. It was a curious thing. She was far more aware of her body's every nuance than she'd ever been before, from the clean cotton sheets she was resting atop and the shift she'd worn to bed, to the feel of her lungs filling and emptying, even her hair as it tickled her shoulders. She was also aware of her environment, but more dimly than she normally would be. She knew where Viconia was, and was aware of the fact that Imoen had fallen asleep, and that the door and windows were securely closed, even though she couldn't see in Reverie any more than she could in her sleep.

"Leaving Reverie is simple. Just envision your 'safe place' again."

Lysara didn't particularly want to, but she did. Her awareness of her body faded back to normal levels and her external perceptions sharpened once more. Her eyes opened and she blinked several times, looking around and yawning.

"That was… an interesting experience," she commented to her teacher. "You mentioned once that you could commune with your god or goddess during Reverie?"

The drow's smile was a satisfied one. "In time. For now, attempting to multitask your reverie, as you are so new to the process, will likely drain instead of replenish you."

"So is this… what it means to be an elf?" Lysara asked.

"A very small part of it," the drow replied. "Learn the language of your people. Learn to speak it, read it, write it, and think in it. You will never understand your forebears, let alone yourself as an elf, until you can do that."

"Thank you, Viconia."

Her reply was in drow, but it didn't sound hostile. In fact, she thought it sounded almost appreciative.

Lysara thought they were off to a good beginning. She would be gentle, honest and sincere with her new drow 'friend' and make sure to keep every promise without twisting it. That was an important part of her plan to show her what she found to be the appealing part of serving the Light. And if that failed… she'd drag the woman kicking and screaming if she had to.

Lysara just hoped that Jaheria was right about her, and wrong about Viconia.


	11. Spider's Web

Chapter 10  
>Spider's Web<p>

Reverie really was easier than - and just as restful as - sleep once Lysara had learned the trick of it. There was little to no chance of oversleeping, and no pesky nightmares preventing her from getting a good night's rest. Viconia was already awake and dressed when Lysara stirred herself to consciousness. She got the impression that the drow was studying her, and perhaps… watching over her? That was a ridiculous thought. Viconia had earned some degree of trust, but Lysara knew she would never think of her as anything more than a friend. She decided to ignore the drow's studious gaze and instead donned her armor, which suddenly included a pair of chain leggings and a matching hauberk, complete with an arming coat. She found a note attached to it.

_The mischief maker from last night was most willing to donate these to our cause after the trouble she attempted to cause us, and you in particular. It will need to be adjusted to fit you, but she doesn't appear to be __that__ much larger than you. Enjoy._

_-J_

When the dawn came, Lysara started the tedious process of all but literally prying Imoen out of bed. In the end she decided to simply reach over the deep-sleeping girl and pull her bed sheet over her, flipping Imoen over until she fell off the edge with a squawk. Lysara couldn't fully suppress her grin, and heard the drow trying to restrain her laughter behind her.

Jaheria had ordered them all breakfast, and watched to make sure no one tampered with it, while Khalid was out readying the horses. "Where are these supplies you said you would purchase yesterday, child?" Jaheria asked of Imoen when she appeared, dressed but still bleary-eyed and bed-haired.

Imoen just blinked at her for a moment before handing over a small pouch. "It's all in there," she said, almost putting her face in the porridge instead of the other way around.

"Are all humans this… eloquent just after waking?" Viconia asked as Jaheira returned Imoen's pouch.

Jaheria replied by spouting something at her which sounded like drow, and made Viconia start laughing. The druid just looked confused at the reaction, and for once Lysara agreed with her completely.

"What did you say to her?" Imoen asked.

"I thought I called her a rothe, and told her to go find one of her own to lay with," Jaheria answered.

Viconia just started laughing harder.

"So what did she actually say?" Lysara asked after the dark-skinned woman had finally stopped laughing and started eating with small bites. Lysara wasn't sure if it was politeness or if she was testing each bite for poison as she went.

"She declared herself to be my unyielding alphabet," Viconia replied, suppressing a fresh wave of chuckling. To Jaheira she added, "Ours is a subtle language. Be careful how you attempt to use it."

Lysara bit her fist for a moment to wipe the smirk off her face and stop herself from laughing at the druid's slip-up, which earned her a silent glare from Jaheira and an approving look from the drow. After eating down what was left of her breakfast far too quickly to be polite, she darted out the door to 'go help Khalid with the horses.'

He had just finished with his own stallion and had pulled out a saddle that she recognized as her own. "I'll do that," she said, taking the saddlecloth and such from him.

"Oh, it's r-really no t-trouble. I'm used to doing a-all the g-grunt-work around camp," he replied with a good-natured tone, but handed it over when she insisted.

"May I ask you a personal question?" she asked as she plopped her saddlecloth on her horse's back. She really needed to think of a name for her.

"Certainly," Khalid stuttered.

She had to focus on what she was doing for a few moments as she started to buckle it in place. She really was a fine animal, and Lysara thought she should pay more attention to her. "You know Elminster, don't you? How is it that he can't dispel a simple illusion cast by a novice?"

"Elminster is a mage, though he is Mystra's chosen. The n-novice I s-speak of was a s-sorcerer, and just d-did it without really u-understanding what he was about. The way Elminster explains it is t-that there's some kind of 'knot' in the magic that can't be unraveled except by the one who cast it."

"And they won't?" Lysara inquired.

"Well, s-see, he's since uh… 'retired'… in the p-permanent s-sense."

"Oh. Well what about dispelling it?" she asked as she strapped her bags and bow in place.

"It r-reforms instantly. I've j-just learned t-to live with it, though Jaheria certainly d-doesn't like having to poke my face t-to remember what I look like."

"Sorry, I'm being rude. You probably don't like talking about stuff that makes her unhappy," she apologized.

He waved it off dismissively. "Well… at least t-this w-way she doesn't have to worry about s-some o-other young s-strumpet s-stealing m-me from her," he commented offhandedly.

She thought perhaps that she now knew what Jaheria had meant when she said 'for some time' but chose not to inquire into it as she affixed her mare's bit and bridle in place, then started loading the pack-horse. "So why do you not talk much? Ever since I've known you you've said perhaps one word to me for every twenty your wife does."

He shrugged. "P-perhaps because I always manage to stick my foot in my mouth," he answered. "I s-still r-remember that glare you sent me when I was trying to s-stick u-up for Adjantis. Besides, J-Jaheira t-tends to get a little j-jealous sometimes. She doesn't like it when I talk overmuch to other women."

She was increasingly sure that he'd been unfaithful at some point, but decided once again against inquiring, at least to him. Then again, asking the druid might provoke a somewhat more violent response. "You… don't have any magical items about your person, do you?" she asked instead, a new spell forming in her mind.

"Why?" he asked, his tone and body language suggesting suspicion.

"Well, I was thinking clerical magic might dispel what arcane has failed to."

"Oh we've t-tried t-that. Besides, you likely can't manage to d-dispel a-anything more than a pin's mirror image j-just y-yet," he replied.

She stopped listening, pulling out her holy symbol and starting to pray, and he froze, looking between her and the stable door as if he couldn't decide which was the greater risk: letting her try, or not having the horses ready as his wife had told him to. She finished before he could make up his mind, beseeching Lathander to 'free this man of any magic which plagues him' even as she envisioned the sun at high noon.

Heat such as she had never imagined filled every fiber of her being, and she wasn't sure if she was screaming or not. It was too much, far too much. She tried to lower the sun in her mental imagery, but it wouldn't budge, only getting bigger and hotter as more and more energy poured into her. She had to get rid of it, or it would incinerate her. She threw it all into the spell she'd been weaving, forcing herself to lay it out, her lips to finish the incantation even if she couldn't speak the words at the moment.

The spell seemed to last forever, but at last the heat stopped coming, though she still felt as if she'd come far too close to the sun. Khalid stumbled away from her, his hand flying to his head and Viconia was kneeling next to her, chanting the words to a healing spell as she held her hands as close to her as she could manage. Lysara looked down, seeing her own steaming body, feeling as if she'd bathed in a river of lava, and couldn't move more than that. Even then she only just realized that she was laying on her side, breathing hard and curled into a ball.

"Fool girl, I warned you about drawing in too much of your god's power," Viconia said, sounding bitter and… afraid? "She will need water, to drink and to cool her. I cannot keep this up for much longer." As soon as the last word left her mouth she started another chant without pausing for breath.

She heard the sound of pages flipping and Imoen demanded a water skin before launching into an incantation of her own a moment later. At first, Lysara felt nothing, and then the heat began to lessen. Forcing her eyes open again, she saw little but pure steam as Imoen continuously conjured more water and directed it at her in an endless stream originating from the skin she held in one hand, her precious book held open in the other.

At last the water stopped turning to vapor when it drew near her skin, and she felt the blessed relief of its touch. The heat drew away from her completely, and she collapsed, suddenly soaked, to the stable floor. Viconia cast one last healing spell and then fell silent. Jaheria stepped into view, a look on her face somewhere between livid rage and concern as she knelt down, taking her own skin and unstopping it before feeding Lysara water in small doses. It tasted absolutely glorious.

"Fool child," the druid admonished. "What were you thinking? What spell in your meager repertoire would require so much power as to nearly kill you and burn down a stable with you?"

"Burn… what? I didn't… cast a fire spell."

Jaheria helped her sit up, hissing as she touched her chainmail. All the hay within a pace of her was simply gone, and there was a large, smoldering hole in the roof directly above her.

"Your body was putting out so much heat you nearly set the place aflame. Learn to control yourself and your power before you go trying something so stupidly powerful again," Jaheria told her, clearly enraged. "I had to manipulate the winds to shunt the heat upwards while Viconia and Imoen saved your life."

She looked at Imoen, and then Viconia, neither of whom looked pleased, and stuttered a thanks to everyone there.

"I'll always help you when I can, Lys," Imoen replied. "But please don't make that level of effort necessary again. Conjuring water isn't all that hard, especially if I already have some on hand. But it's taxing to make so much of it continuously."

"It appears that I still have much to teach you," Viconia told her at length.

"I'm simply glad you're alright," Khalid said. Jaheria rounded on him and froze. "What?" he asked when all eyes turned on him.

"You took your helmet off?" Imoen asked, astounded.

"I… had forgotten how handsome you are," Jaheria said, drawing close to him and grabbing hold, dragging him down where she could kiss him. And it was a very thorough kiss she planted on him. And Lysara agreed with Jaheria, though she swore she would never ever admit it. He had long, wavy brown hair which needed a trim it likely hadn't receive since the glamor was placed on him, a long, chiseled face, and lovely hazel eyes.

"You… dispelled the glamor," Khalid stated over Jaheria's shoulder, one hand brushing her hair as the other was wrapped around her waist. "Thank you."

"You told her about it?" Jaheria demanded angrily, drawing away from him.

"She asked, dear. I saw no reason not to tell her."

"She could have died trying to dispel it!"

"How was I supposed to know she would try to hurl that much power at me?" he defended himself. "How was I supposed to know she even _could _manipulate that much energy? She didn't even ask; she just did it."

"Don't try to put this off on her," Jaheria retorted, putting one hand on her hip and shaking her other index finger at him as he recoiled. "You should have known she'd try something. Weeks on the road together and you can't see how reckless and impulsive she is?"

"Let's just get moving," Lysara declared loudly, forcing herself to stand. With as much heat as they said she'd been putting out it was a miracle her clothes hadn't caught. Then again, maybe they had. She'd have to check when they stopped for the night. At least her cloak looked undamaged. "I'm fine now, and you're welcome. Let's go catch some saboteurs."

"You need at least a…"

"_Now_, Jaheria. I'm fine, thanks to all three of you, and I _do not _need to rest. I'm going with or without you," Lysara cut in, somehow managing – she thought – to give the appearance of grace as she leapt on top of her horse. By the gods she was tired though. But she wasn't going to let herself be seen as a weak, helpless little whelp any longer. Pulling her coinpurse from her saddlebag, she emptied almost half of what was in it into the stable master's hands. "For your trouble," she told him before booting her mare into motion.

"Wait!" Khalid called. "I haven't even saddled Oakleaf yet!"

"Hurry up then. I'm going ahead," she called back.

Viconia, trying to keep her hood in place against the wind of her horse's passage, caught up a few moments later. She slowed from a gallop to a canter to keep pace with Lysara's horse.

"You consider this Imoen to be a sister to you?" she asked without waiting.

"Of course," Lysara replied.

"And you trust her?"

"Of course," she said again.

"I do not understand this. You _trust_ your _sister_?"

"Why should I not?"

"In my culture a sister is someone to compete against, a rival to overcome and eliminate if necessary to advance your own interests," Viconia explained. "Treachery is inevitable, and so trust is for the foolish, and the dead."

"In _our_ culture, a sister is someone who supports your endeavors, and rejoices at your achievements, and you're expected to do the same for her. In her you can confide your innermost secrets without fear that she will use them against you or reveal them simply because she knows they will cause you pain or for advantage. I won't say there aren't rivalries between sisters, even up here… but we don't kill our blood-kin if we can help it. I think I've thought of a name for my horse."

"Your horse?" Viconia asked, puzzled at the change of topic.

"I'm going to call her Ibblith. That means 'not drow' yes?"

"It is a derogatory term for it, yes."

"Odd, I didn't think there were any respectful terms for 'not drow' in your language."

Viconia opened her mouth, and then closed it again, and chuckled. "Well then, not-drow the horse… I'm sure she will serve you as well as any other _ibblith._"

"I trust you, Viconia," she said after a moment's silence.

"You should not."

"Because you're going to betray me?"

"It is inevitable."

"You don't want to," Lysara stated simply. "Do you? If you did you wouldn't tell me about it before hand."

"You have _no_ idea the intricacies of drow politics. Your most sophisticated plot on the surface is but a training web for a priestess aspiring to be a matron mother one day. You would be hard-pressed to find a highborn woman who does not fit that description."

Imoen caught up a moment later, drawing up the other side from the drow. "They're trying to decide if they're angry or grateful right now," she said with an impish grin when she caught up. And then she looked at Viconia and quickly looked away, seemingly embarrassed again.

"Gratitude is a useless emotion. It invites trust, which invites treachery," the drow supplied for Imoen's benefit.

"Oh, yes. I'm also grateful for the clerical tips you've been giving me," Lysara put in. "And saving my life, and let's see, what else… oh yes, your blabbing in the tub last night has demolished a wall between me and Imoen that I hadn't even realized was there, and I'm grateful for that…"

"Is there a purposed behind your sudden choice of gratitudes?" the drow asked testily.

"To directly contradict what you just said, of course. I've already stated that I trust you. Now I've shown you trust and gratitude. Does that mean you'll betray me now?"

The drow fixed her with a haughty look and just kicked her own mare into moving faster, drawing out ahead.

"Why did you that to her?" Imoen asked with a puzzled look on her face. "It confuses the hells out of her."

Lysara let her horse fall back, and reached over to do the same with Imoen's. Only once she was sure that the drow was out of earshot did she answer.

"I'm trying to show her that the ways of the Underdark, of the drow, aren't the only way," she whispered to Imoen. "I'm trying to teach her that there are other ways that are just as strong – I really don't care about being stronger, though she would – as the culture she was brought up in. You didn't let her…"

"No," Imoen replied, blushing. "No I didn't, though she did try to seduce me again the moment you were gone. I almost caved too. She's… really beautiful and… well, it's like… there's something there, beneath the surface. I think she's… lonely… and sad."

Lonely. That was a good word for it, though still not the correct one. "There's a lot beneath the surface of that woman," Lysara agreed. "I wonder what she was like in the Underdark."

"She doesn't seem to like talking about that," Imoen observed.

"Where are those two?" Lysara asked almost an hour after they'd left Nashkel behind. "I would have thought…"

"Which two?" Jaheria asked, suddenly just there and making Lysara jump.

Khalid was right beside her, grinning ear to ear. "I can feel the wind on my face again!" he exclaimed.

"Where did you… how did you…"

"I told you I could conceal animals' presence," Jaheria replied with a wink and a laugh. "Consider us even for the way you scared me earlier. And thank you for breaking that accursed spell." She reached over and grabbed her husband's hand before turning back to Lysara. "Just remember… he's mine."

"Oh I don't know," Lysara replied flippantly. "I kind of like older men. Joking!"

The look on Jaheira's face was as far as it could get from pleasant without being murderous, and Lysara no longer felt the slightest need to ask. Fortunately they were both distracted by a sudden barking off their chosen path. A little girl was running from the south with a shaggy yellow-furred dog in tow, which was the source of the barking and both seemed to be scared witless as they changed course to intercept the group.

"Help!" she cried out, tripping on something that Lysara couldn't see. "Please help!"

Lysara reined up hard, and dismounted in a flash, followed by Jaheira and the others. The former reached the girl first, helping her stand and getting clung to desperately. The girl couldn't have been more than ten, and her blue eyes were shedding more water than a leaky dam.

"It's alright," Lysara said comfortingly as she drew the strange girl into a hug. "Tell me what the matter is, and how I can help."

"Mama and papa and my big brother!" the girl declared, twisting in Lysara's grip and pointing back the way she'd come. "I got away 'cause I was out playing with my friend Bethann but I saw the dog-men."

"Dog-men? Gnolls?" Lysara asked.

"I don't know!" the girl wailed. "They tried to catch me, but rover bit the one that grabbed me and I ran! But they got my friend Bethany. They were so big and scary looking. Please help! I'm too small and helpless to run all the way to town!"

"That is not a good idea," Viconia volunteered.

"Just like it wasn't a good idea to interfere with your caravan ambush?" Jaheira demanded.

"And you may wish to step away from the 'girl,' _dalhar_," the drow added to Lysara, ignoring the druid completely. "She is not what she appears to be."

"What do you mean?" Lysara asked, not backing away but twisting to look up at the drow.

"What do you mean?" the child echoed. "I'm just a helpless little girl looking for help against the bad monsters…"

Lysara felt the tug at her dagger sheath, and looked down just in time to see the girl's hand recoiling away from her weapon, which had refused to budge for the unknown hand. Or at least, what had looked to be a human child's hand a mere moment ago. It turned milky white and the fingers all merged into a single point as the doppleganger shrieked.

Lysara tumbled backwards, away from the pretending monster and came back on her feet to find 'it' still exactly where it had been standing, in the same pose, the dog similarly frozen. Viconia dismounted and walked over to it quite calmly.

"What…" Lysara started, cutting off with a sharp gesture from the drow.

"Go back to your master and tell her that she can't have the girl. Tell her the deal is off," the drow told the creature as she casually brought her Morningstar down on the dog's head. It gave off the same shriek that the girl had and fell down, going still in an expanding pool of whiteness.

"How did you know?" Lysara demanded as she grabbed the drow's arm a dozen paces off.

"Because I was contacted last night with instructions to ensure that you were taken by the beast back to its friends' lair," Viconia answered. "I decided that I like you living better than in their hands. Besides, I do not believe they ever intended to honor their promises."

So Viconia had not only been in earnest when she'd told Lysara that she was going to betray her, she'd been on a timetable as well. Still, she had opted out of the dirty deed… for now… That thought took the edge of the anger that started to bubble up at the drow's admission.

"I warned you, Lysara," Jaheira said as she readied her staff, but the drow still ignored her.

"The decision is yours, _avvil,_" Viconia said. "But I have just betrayed them, for your sake. How will you repay that?"

"Stand down, Jaheira," Lysara commanded. She had glimpsed the diamond in the ruff, and decided on the spot that it was worth extracting and polishing.

"She is manipulating you!" Jaheira insisted. "She is telling you what you wish to hear and selling it so that you will not know the difference. Do not be taken in by a single act!"

_And you're giving her the response she wants, so that I'll take her side out of reflexively defying you_, she thought to herself. "What was promised to you, and by whom?" Lysara asked Viconia.

"I was promised wealth, and guards that I could trust to follow the coin, and even land of my own. I was promised servants and playthings enough to sate all of my appetites," Viconia answered. "As for who, I do not know their names. One was a human woman no bigger than you are, with a round face and even rounder eyes. Brown eyes. She was dark of hair and had a pouty mouth, and a short nose. The other, I think was her servant. He kept his eyes on the table and his mouth shut, so I paid him little mind."

"Do you know for whom they worked?" Lysara pressed.

"No. They wore nothing distinctive. I could not pick their clothing out of a pile if I tried, and neither had anything about them… no, wait… the woman wore a pendant. A skull in a circle of… something resembling rain drops. I did not look too closely at it and paid it little heed at the time."

"No one with any sense would still wear Bhaal's holy symbol where others can view it," Jaheira asserted. "You are lying…"

"It was under her blouse. I only saw it because of a gap… it was too small for her, you see. I do not believe that it was _her_ blouse, but one she acquired from someone else."

"Any further questions, Jaheira?" Lysara asked.

"She is lying," the druid insisted.

"Prove it," Lysara challenged. That made the drow smile a little.

"Surely they said _something_ distinctive?" Jaheira said to the drow. "Something which would give some hint?"

"The only thing remarkable they said which I have not already related was a vague reference to 'the throne.' They did not say anything to single out what throne it was they served, however, and the woman hit the man for mentioning it. The only other thing even vaguely distinctive I can think of was the woman's blade."

"Let me guess… you forgot to mention that it also had a skull pommel and the circle of tears on the cross-guard?" Jaheira supposed.

"No. She did not mean for me to see it. As she mounted someone handed her a slender blade that curved… similar to a scimitar but not quite… I know not how to describe it beyond that."

"A katana?" Imoen asked, producing a scrap of paper and a charcoal. She spent a moment sketching and showed a picture to the drow, who nodded.

"That is… an approximation. I have never seen one quite like it." The drow turned to Lysara. "Will you allow me to continue to travel with you?"

Lysara didn't hesitate to nod.

"I see through your plot, drow," Jaheira declared. "You pretend to betray your masters for her sake, only to betray her in earnest at some point in the future…"

"Jaheira," Lysara said forcefully that she almost yelled. "Shut… up. We've wasted more than enough time with this diversion. The mines are still waiting."

Lysara swung up into her saddle, but the druid wasn't finished yet. "They've waited for months now. Another few minutes…"

"Enough!" Lysara barked as the druid tried to take her reins from her. "She has just saved my life _again_ and you would have me repay her by casting her away? Prove your allegations, Jaheira, or let them lie. In the meantime, we've work to be about."

Without waiting for a reply, she booted _Ibblith_ into motion, thinking furiously the whole way to the mines. Was the druid right? Was Viconia only trying to lull her suspicions? Would the woman betray her simply to prove her point about trust?

Maybe that's why she was trying to seduce Imoen. But if that silver-blonde bimbo thought that a pretty face and a nice figure would be enough to make Imoen betray her, she had another thing coming…


	12. The Nashkel Mines

Lysara knew she had only put a bandage, and a thin one at that, over the wound in their group. It wouldn't take much effort for it to tear and blood to start flowing. She couldn't help but grimace at the image that that euphemism invoked. The thought of her friends trying to kill each other was tearing at her heart; and she resolved to deal with it after they dealt with the mines.

The ride was actually fairly pleasant, though the drow stayed quiet, ignoring the equally quiet druid. Jaheira seemed less hostile to her than she had before, though the mistrust was still there. Suspicion and even a little gratitude were both present. Lysara concluded that she'd helped more than Imoen or Jaheira herself in the aftermath of dispelling the glamor as she had. And the drow _had_ saved Lysara's life by putting a hold spell on the doppelganger when she had as well.

"Alright," Lysara said as she signaled them to cluster together. "Those 'little horned devils' that Ghastkill mentioned… what can they be?"

"Imps, quasits, a few other possibilities," Jaheira speculated. "We won't know until we get down there."

"Could fel magic be behind the taint?" Lysara asked.

"I doubt that is the case," Viconia interjected quietly. "You have said that diviners were employed to examine the tainted products and ore. Either they are all uncharacteristically stupid, and missed the signs of fel energy, or there was none to be found."

"And you would know of fel energy… how?" Jaheira asked.

"I am a drow trained in the priestly arts," Viconia answered, just as quietly. "You cannot complete your curriculum in any drow city without summoning at least a few creatures of the lower planes."

"Well… I'm sure we're aware of the average intellect of menial workers. It could be that the kobolds that Ghastkill mentioned are the same thing as the creatures the miners are talking about."

The mines came into sight and Lysara very nearly rode her horse over the edge into the mine proper. She and the others dismounted, leading their mounts to the start of the path down before hobbling them.

"Thank you for earlier," Viconia said quietly to her as they walked down the path.

Lysara shrugged. "I said I'd protect you," she reminded the drow.

"From the townspeople… your words, your promise put you under no obligation to defend me from your friends as well."

"I count you as a friend too, Viconia." She smiled at the drow as she said that, and received a small one in return.

"Until the next time I betray you, then," the drow replied with the sound of a joke in her voice.

"Why did you choose me over your benefactors?" Lysara asked a moment later. It was always better to be safe than sorry.

"I more than half expect that my… benefactors, as you put it… that they intended nothing more than to kill me right alongside you had I delivered what I promised. They have given me no reason to believe otherwise. You… you have yet to betray your word to me in any way I can detect."

"I have no intention of betraying or deceiving you, Viconia."

"Thank you again, _avvil_." The drow sounded skeptical, but less so than Lysara would have expected.

"I'm not sure what that word means," Lysara prompted.

"The closest translation- is 'friend,'" the drow informed her. Lysara couldn't help but smile at that. _Too easy_, a voice in the back of her mind cautioned.

The mine's surface level was much, much wider than Lysara had imagined. She'd expected just a small hole in the ground that lead into an underground cave system from which the ore was dug. In actuality it was a wide, deep basin which was crisscrossed with footpaths and ramps, natural and cut from the earth and made of wood. There were platforms and pulleys and cranes all over the perimeter, many of which looked to have been disabled.

Of course, there was a rather large passage that fit her original expectations, at the very bottom of the basin, with a very grumpy looking man sitting on a boulder facing it. He was in charge, Lysara could tell at a glance, though he was but one of a small crowd of archers forming a semicircle around the perimeter.

"You must be the lot that Ghastkill sent," he spat when they came up close, without turning around. "Though I only hear three of you. Thought there were nine…" Turning around he flicked his eyes between the five of them. "Oh. Elves. And where're the rest what're supposed to be with you? Well, you're late and short on people. I sure hope you're not squeamish about caves. Blasted kobolds have forced all my workers out completely. Dozens of them down there, maybe more."

"A strange and highly convenient happenstance, that we would arrive just as the kobolds decide to move openly," Viconia commented.

"Methinks we're expected," Imoen added, fishing through her bag of holding and extracting a wide ring that she contented herself to just hold in her hand for the moment.

"Collaborator, or tricky communications system, you think?" Lysara asked.

"Could be one, both, or neither," Imoen replied. "Probably that doppelganger we cut loose earlier."

The man in charge spat on the ground at his feet. "We pay our sodding workers near twice what other mines do. Why? Because we can, and still turn a decent profit. Still, there are one or two I wouldn't put it past."

"Going to question them?" Lysara asked.

"Only if one of you can call up the spirits of the dead. The two I'm think'n of died this morning in the first few seconds of them kobolds bubbling up."

"So they eliminated their sources when they were no longer useful," Viconia said approvingly. "I could do as you suggest, though I would need half a day to prepare first."

"Perhaps you know something of this… happenstance, Viconia?" Jaheira asked.

"I have told you all I know of the plot against your friend," the drow returned. "I was approached, I was given instructions and a hollow promise, and an update was delivered last night. That is all. I am done with them."

"We will see," Jaheira replied. Lysara just rubbed her temples, feeling the pressure starting to build already.

"How many Kobolds?" Lysara asked the foreman.

"Ask any two of my men and you'll get six different answers on that," he replied, spitting again. At least he looked chagrined about it. Lysara concluded that he must be married, or at least betrothed, and halfway civilized as a result. "Enough to slaughter six men and force another twenty out of the tunnels, at least. But then, these ain't exactly trained soldiers. Most men turn to mining and such 'cause they don't want to fight, or can't fight for whatever reason."

"Are you expecting anyone besides that pair from Rasheman?" Lysara asked. "You said nine. With the two we were expecting that makes seven."

"Aye, there's two more volunteers what're supposed to be here… ah, now I'm guessing," he replied, glancing over Lysara's shoulder.

"Oh, there you are, pretty little woman," a low, stuttering voice said from behind her. She just closed her eyes for a moment and breathed. Damn it, she'd thought she was free of that pair.

Surely enough, when she turned around, Khalid and Jaheira were between her and the speaker, just as she'd predicted. Also just as she'd predicted, that speaker was Xzar, with Montaron right beside him. "What do you want?" Lysara asked flatly.

"Believe it or not, we want the same thing you do," Montaron told her.

"You're right, I don't believe it," she shot back instantly.

"Our employers want to know who is tainting the ore in this region, and why," Xzar agreed with Montaron as if she hadn't spoken. "And they – and therefore we – want that person or persons dead. Preferably in the slow, painful, humiliating fashion."

"I'm thinking we can maybe be working together in this," the Halfling offered.

"Think again," Lysara replied, just as flatly.

"And why's that?" he pushed.

"Because I'd sooner trust the scorpion's word that he wouldn't sting me if I swam him across the river before I'd believe a word out of either of your mouths," Lysara retorted, referring to a very old parable.

"Is there a problem here?" a woman's accented voice asked as Dynaheir and Minsc descended the path. The big man had a strange metal frame on his face, with discs of glass contoured in a way that looked to encompass his entire field of vision installed in them.

"You're a little late, and I was starting to wonder if Edwin had gotten you, but otherwise, no," Lysara answered.

"No, no problem at all," Montaron agreed. "Nine's a bit much to be goin' down there though…"

"Good thing only seven are going down," Lysara insisted even as Minsc opened his mouth to speak.

"Lass, let's be reasonable," the Halfling began.

"Run off, little one, before I decide to tell Ghastkill exactly who you are and who you work for," Lysara warned. "I've no patience for your ilk and I imagine he has even-"

She leaned quickly to the side to avoid the first knife thrown at her, and had her blades in hand as quickly as Montaron had pulled his. She swatted a second one out of the air without even thinking about it. This time it was Xzar bashing the Halfling over his head with his staff that prevented the situation from deteriorating. "Peace!" He shouted, holding his staff high and holding his other hand out unmoving. "Come now, Lysara… pretty little Lysara… we saved your life once," the mad mage reminded her. "If you turn us aside from investigating this matter, our masters will _murder_ us, and you may as well have _murdered_ us yourself. Surely you don't want our _murders_ on your conscience. _Murder_ is such a poor repayment for saving your life."

He knew. That was the only explanation for the subtle emphasis he'd placed on her sire's portfolio no less than four times in two sentences. How he'd gotten a good enough gauge of her character to guess at the promise she'd made to her god was an open question, unless she was much more predictable than she'd thought. But she was far from convinced of their sincerity. In fact, he'd likely just threatened to reveal her secret if she revealed theirs. She just stared at the mage through narrowed eyes, without taking the whole of her attention from Montaron, who was groaning and picking himself up.

"You can't be considering it," Jaheira said. "I draw the line at working with _them."_

"No. I'm not tempted in the slightest to bring them along," Lysara confirmed, and the druid relaxed. "Xzar, I don't care what your masters do to you. That's their choice, and yours for serving them in the first place. I've no part in that, and not saving you isn't the same thing at all as killing you. You can wait up here, but you are _not_ coming with us. I will _not_ trust someone of your organization at my back. If I catch sight of you down there, no matter what you're doing, I'll assume that your intent is hostile."

"Well," Xzar replied indignantly, his eyes glinting dangerously. And then he just grinned at his Halfling friend. "You hear that, Monty? She's going to investigate for us!"

"Eh?" the Halfling asked as he made it to his feet. Like Xzar, he didn't seem to care that the other had struck him.

"Oh, our orders never specified that _we_ have to do the investigating, only that we have to find out what's going on here! It's kind of like subcontracting: let's let them take all the damage from the kobolds and the… whatever else may be down there and when they come back up we'll just listen in when she reports back anyway!"

"We're still right here," Lysara reminded the Zhents, making the mage jump.

"Oh, why so you are," the mage replied before lowering his voice. "Cursed elven hearing," he mumbled as if he hadn't been speaking at a normal level in the first place. "And thrice-cursed elven women. Hmpf!"

"Come along," she said to her companions, turning to the foreman. "I don't suppose you'd have a map of where in the mines your workers have gone missing? My bet is that there's a hidden passage somewhere near there to wherever these kobolds are coming from."

"Aye, I thought of that. And I sent men in last night to have a look, and ain't seen them since. Just go on in and take it if it's still there. Little devils have probably torched and sacked the place." He proceeded to give them directions.

"Any places down there that don't like fire?" Lysara asked.

"You mean the warm air that makes fireballs with the slightest spark? No. Not that we've found anyway. Still, if you have a magical light, you'll be advised to use it instead."

"I can do that," Imoen supplied, looking curiously at the Rashemi woman.

"As can I," Dynaheir told Imoen with a smile. "I'm sure we'll enjoy shop talk as it were later."

"We'll make introductions when we're out of earshot of that pair," Lysara said. "Okay, let's move in single file. Minsc, you're in front." She figured that was where the berserker wanted to be, and the better to protect Dynaheir from threats that came upon them suddenly. "I'll go next, then Imoen, then Viconia, then Dynaheir, then Jaheira. Khalid, you're bringing up the rear."

"How did you know…" Jaheira began, looking startled.

"Simple really… I've had a while to think about the best way to proceed, and this was the most sensible solution," she answered. "I'm sure I don't need to bore you on the details of why I put each person where."

"No, I already understand your reasoning," the druid admitted grumpily.

"Y-you really are turning into q-quite the capable l-leader," Khalid told her, still glancing at the Zhents behind them, and then his wife as if he couldn't decide who he found more intimidating. Montaron had taken out a skin of… something and was passing it back and forth with the mage. Whichever on wasn't drinking was talking, but she couldn't make out a single word.

"If that pair turns up, don't wait to find out what they're about. They mean us no good, you can be sure of that. And if we get separated, make your way back up here."

"You seem jumpy over them," Dynaheir observed. "Why?"

"You mentioned someone whose plots rival the organization that the man whose chasing you belongs to. They're with them, and please keep it quiet."

The foreign woman blinked, and then looked at the two evildoers more contemplatively.

"Oh conundrums," Minsc said with a plaintive sound. "Boo, what to do? I cannot protect Dynaheir from these villains if I am up front, but I cannot protect her from the dangers in the mines if I am in the rear…" The hamster climbed up to his shoulder and started squeaking in it, right in front of everyone. "No, Boo… we cannot do that. Dynaheir has forbidden us from attacking someone unless they're actively posing danger to her." He paused again, listening to his hamster squeak; and Imoen was staring at him skeptically. "Yes, yes. I must trust our new friends to watch over her from the dangers that they know, while I plant my boot in the buttocks of evils unknown ahead! Ha ha!"

"Umm," Imoen said, looking at Lysara doubtfully.

Lysara just shrugged in reply. "Let's go," she ordered. "Dynaheir, is it at all possible that you can seal the entrance against those two behind us?"

Dynaheir just nodded, and they all paused just inside to wait for her to cast her spell while Imoen watched intently and slipped her ring on at the same time. "There," she declared when she was done, though the opening looked no different to Lysara. "Air can pass through both ways, but it is a solid barrier otherwise. If the mage dispels it, I will know instantly."

"Good enough. Will Minsc have any trouble seeing in the dark?"

"No. That is what his infra-scopes are for."

"Alright then. Imoen, have you got… that spell you used on the werewolves memorized?" Lysara asked.

"Nope," the woman answered. "It came off one of my emergency pages. I can't cast it again."

"Emergency page?" This time it was Dynaheir that asked.

"There's a set of pages in the back of my book that are actually scrolls… well, let's leave it at no, I can't use it again… that I know of."

"May I ask what this spell does? Perhaps I have…"

"Not to be rude, but can you girls do your mage swap later? We're not exactly safe here," Lysara told them, and they nodded. Imoen looked chagrined while Dynaheir didn't seem to care.

The tunnels were unremarkable, unlit, and unoccupied bores through the earth with the occasional wooden framework holding them up as they followed the directions that the foreman had given them, though Lysara thought she could hear jabbering and the occasional scrape of stone on stone as they moved. As predicted, the office had been utterly trashed, and there was no trace of anything metal other than the nails in the support beams and the furniture. But they hadn't set fire to anything and the papers and maps were all intact. Examining one showed that the tunnel system was more complex than she'd anticipated, and much, much larger than she'd thought. Imoen quickly found the record of who had gone missing where, and they were off.

The first level was almost completely clear, though they caught a kobold pouring… something into a mining cart. It screeched when it saw them and dropped what looked to be a lump of iron ore on the ground. It was still reaching for its weapon when Lysara's arrow claimed its life.

"An interesting weapon," the witch commented as she strode forward. "And a very clever trick…"

"That what I think it is?" Imoen asked as they set up positions around the defiled cart.

"That'll depend on what you think it is," Lysara prompted her as she scanned one of the tunnels.

"They hollowed out a piece of iron ore, then poured whatever this stuff is into it," Imoen explained. "No idea what the fluid is though, but once they were done with it, all they had to do was drop the container into the mine cart. I'm betting that no one even glances at the rocks before they go to smelt them."

"Yes, but how are they…" Dynaheir began, cut off by the sound of a lot of kobolds jabbering nearby.

Lysara knew what she was wondering. If there was only one way in or out, how were they bringing in the materials to make their little concoction? There must have been a back door somewhere that the foreman didn't know about. The only other possibility was that a turncoat had been smuggling the stuff in, but that didn't make sense to her. They would have either had to smuggle in one ingredient at the time, which wouldn't have allowed time to produce as much as they'd need; or that turncoat was very, very good.

"Stay quiet, and let's move," Lysara bade them, gesturing at the next tunnel. They had several more forks in their path before they found the tunnel they were looking for, and fortunately they only had to fight once, just as they'd arrived at the indicated tunnel. The Rashemi berserker did almost all of it before the others could move.

"Alright, their base has got to be near here some-AHH!" she started, cutting off with a squeal when she moved off to the side. Someone had covered a pitfall with a cloth and piled dirt and stone atop of it. She dropped her bow as she fell through it.

Someone grabbed her cloak, but it only gave a sharp tug before coming off of her shoulders as she tumbled. Her friends were all yelling for her as she fell and tumbled. Their voices faded long before she finally came to a rest at the base of the shaft. She picked herself up, coughing and waving her hand in front of her face to dispel the loose dust, and looked around.

She was alone, she was certain. She had no idea how long her fall had taken, and she was filthy. She didn't care for any of those facts, and she realized that she'd never been completely alone before, except to sleep. At least she wasn't buried alive… she could taste the air moving, if slowly. But she was in a part of the complex she was sure wasn't on the map. Looking back up made her heart sink. The passage had collapsed behind her, and she could just feel the faint vibrations of whatever had caused the shaft to seal behind her. But listen as hard as she would, she couldn't hear any sound made my anything living beyond the plug. Fighting down a surge of panic, more for her companions than herself, she pulled her blades and picked a tunnel to set off into.

"Damn it," she swore at least five times as she kept hitting dead ends.

She was rapidly starting to hate caves, but made herself calm down, and started making a mental map of the section she was in. There was nothing significant she could detect to use as a navigation mark, and the acoustics were playing havoc with her hearing. And then there was the near-stillness of the air. Everything smelled foul, unused.

She didn't like it down here at all.

After organizing herself and taking stock of her surroundings, she started getting a feel for the system's layout. She couldn't find a way out, or even back to where she'd been before she fell; but eventually she heard rushing water, and figured that if there was a way for water to get in, it might mean a way back to the surface for her. She was just surprised that she hadn't encountered any hostiles.

As if on cue, a pair of kobolds surprised her by turning around a corner, and only her chainmail saved her from losing her sword arm when the closer one slashed at her. By the gods that strike hurt, but her counterstroke opened the rat's throat and her thrown dagger buried itself in the other creature's heart before they could move to follow up. She knew it was back in its sheath before she even put a hand to it. A healing prayer later and she was fine, but moving more cautiously.

She blinked at the sudden light when she came out at an overlook for a small cavern. She supposed that Viconia would probably appreciate the place better than she would. There was a large building on the middle of a lake at the bottom of the basin, fed from what looked to be an underground stream, where the light was streaming from. It was definitely artificial, constructed of white stone that contrasted with the local dark, and thirty feet high at the apex. It was more or less dome-shaped, and had only one walkway connecting the entrance to the lake bed.

She didn't see anything moving at all beyond the rippling of the lake's surface where the stream fed into it. Supposing that the kobolds were all out and about hunting for her friends, she slipped down the short fall between her and the cavern floor. She just hoped that they were alright, and had no choice but to trust that they would be a match for any force of those vermin that were sent against them. She stole quietly across the open space between her and the… she supposed it was the front door; and paused outside of it, listening.

"… about to be discovered!" a loud, rough voice was saying. She didn't hear even a whisper of reply but the speaker spoke again as if he was holding a conversation. "I don't know if the girl is involved or not. Why are you so obsessed with that elf? Our whole scheme is about to be blown apart. If pure iron starts coming out of this mine… Yes sir… I understand…"

She peeked around the edge of the door, seeing a large creature standing facing an empty picture frame as he hung his head. She could see a massive claymore sheathed on its back, and the damned thing looked wickedly sharp. Her chainmail probably wouldn't stop it, she thought. "Damned Vok. 'Destroy the project' he says… 'can't let them find it'… bah." He reached up and touched the frame, before pulling it off the wall and smashing it against the floor. 'It' was a half-orc male, at least half again Lysara's height, and proportionately brawny; with brown skin and a stupid-looking face.

Stupid or not, he saw her when he turned around, and pulled his blade off its back even as she started casting the same hold that she'd used on the bounty hunter the previous night. "You?" it demanded instead of charging, which gave her all the time she needed. Her spell went off, and the huge brute froze.

"I'll just take that," Lysara said, sheathing her dagger as she stepped up and reached for the grip of the huge weapon.

"Sure you will," he replied. She'd almost managed to touch it when he sped it forward, pommel first, right into her forehead. The world exploded in a flash of light.

She staggered, dropping her blade as her vision swam, and let herself fall away from the creature. Even dazed she could feel the wake of the sword passing over her where her neck had been a mere moment ago, and felt the brute's follow up kick land in her rib cage. She rolled with it, but found her back literally against the wall. She drew her dagger and threw blindly in one motion, but only heard the clink of it being deflected.

"I don't know why the boss wants you so bad, but best not to disappoint," the creature said with surprising eloquence. She grabbed at his wrists when she felt his hands on her throat, but it was obvious that he was much stronger than she was. She didn't move those massive arms a hair.

He was squeezing, and she couldn't draw air in. Focusing herself was a chore, but she aimed a kick right at his groin, encountering a metal codpiece instead. The only reaction she got from him was a grunt. "Why do women always do that? You shouldn't have dropped your pretty little weapons, wench," he taunted, his eyes filling her bespotted vision. "Oh don't worry. Boss-man wants you himself. You'll wake up, but you won't like it."

Her blades… letting go of his hands, she reached down, pulling her dagger and stabbing through his forearm. He howled in surprise and pain, and let go of her throat, staring dumbfounded at his newfound wound. Wrenching herself up, she pulled her sword and took off his other arm, just above the elbow. She could barely breathe, let alone talk as she braced one foot next to his ankle and kicked at his other knee with the other.

He tripped, falling over with a renewed cry as her dagger slipped out of his forearm. She straddled his chest and drove it into his somewhat-good shoulder instead, just to make sure he couldn't possibly overpower her again. She murmured a soft prayer, not enough to heal him, but enough to stop him from dying on her just yet. There were questions she had for him.

"Talk," she rasped, still trying to catch her breath before she turned her healing magic on herself.

"I'll… I'll tell you everything!" he promised. "Just don't kill me!"

He wasn't a threat anymore, and killing him would have been simple murder. She had utterly no intention of doing that. "I won't kill you," she promised him. "But I've got a drow friend. You're familiar with the drow, aren't you? If I sense you're lying to me I'll let her have a turn on you. Wouldn't like that, would you?" The half-orc shook his head. "Who're you working for?"

"I don't know his name. He makes me call him 'Vok' when I have to address him directly," the brute told her.

"And what does 'Vok' look like?" she asked, already suspecting the answer.

"Big guy, human I think but he fights like a demon… wears this armor that stops me from seein' his face or anythin' about him. All black, it's got a lot of spikes with these big horns coming out of the helmet, and his eyes are yellow and glow like torches. Uh… he's got a claymore, the only one I've ever seen with a serrated edge."

"And who does he work for?" Lysara asked. Koveras. Was that an alias, perhaps? Though if you turn the first syllable around it achieved that effect…

"I don't know that he works for anyone!"

"Okay. What about a woman? Has he got a human woman about my size working for him? Brown hair and eyes, round face, fights with a katana."

"What? How do you know about Tomoko?" the goon asked disbelievingly. "Yeah, she's his bitch. Bends over every time he says to, goes where he wants her to and talks to who he says. She kills for him too, though he likes to do that himself."

She ignored his question. So the man who had killed Gorion was the one behind the iron crisis… or at least a liaison for the ones who were. And he liked killing. That was a tidbit that she didn't have before. "Who does _she_ serve? Besides Vok, I mean."

"I ain't even supposed to know that… the Iron Throne!" The last came out as a squawk when she batted the pommel of her dagger, still sticking out of his shoulder. "She works for the Iron Throne. It's… it's a trading company based in Baldur's Gate."

"How have you been tainting the iron?"

"It's a mix of… several different potions. The recipe is in the table with all the apparatuses on it." He looked off to her left, at the table he'd been standing in front of when she'd first sighted him.

"Now… why have you been doing it?" she asked.

"Vok told me to. He beat me… real easy… says he owns me and I have to do what he says, or I'll wish for the slow, painful death."

"Did he say why you were to be tainting the ore?"

"No, and he almost killed me anyway when I asked."

"There you are!" Imoen's voice came from the doorway. Lysara was off the bastard in an instant, taking her dagger with her and making him howl when it slid free. She also noticed that the human was wearing her bow slantwise across her body. "Gods Lys, we were scared witless!"

She hugged her friend, who looked at her throat, glanced at her brow, and then looked murderously at the helpless half-orc. "Well, as you can see I'm alright. What happened to you?"

"I don't know how, but Montaron and Xzar were right behind us with that Thayvian… Edwin? The second you screamed they started casting, and Dynaheir and I were too busy dodging knives to even try to interrupt their spells. We barely had time to get further in before they collapsed the tunnel we'd just come out of. If Viconia weren't there we'd be dead. She conjured some kind of shield that kept the tunnel from collapsing around our ears as we ran."

"Is everyone alright?"

"Yeah. Minsc took a rock to the head but I don't think he even noticed, if you know what I mean."

"I'm just glad everyone's alright," Lysara said before returning her attention to the saboteur. "You're coming with us into Nashkel, and then you're going to answer some more questions that I probably haven't thought of yet."

"Please… just kill me quick," the brute pleaded. "You don't know what they'll do to me if they find out I talked…"

She felt something settle around her shoulders and realized that Jaheira was next to her, putting her cloak about her shoulders for her. "You're covered in blood, Lysara," the druid said. "You'll need a bath when we get back to town. Have you at least managed to pry some answers out of this one?"

"Plenty," she said, clasping her cloak as she moved to the table, reaching for its solitary drawer.

"Wait!" Imoen protested, and Lysara's hand froze just an inch from touching it. "There's magic coming off the drawer front. Probably a trap."

Imoen poked at it for a few seconds while Lysara just glared at the practically armless creature. Then she got out her old lock picks – the first time Lysara had seen them since Candlekeep – and deftly disabled a mechanical trap before opening the drawer.

"What's in there?" the druid asked curiously.

"One big alchemy book," Imoen informed her as the rest of their companions filed in. They all looked dirty, but none the worse for wear, and all of them, even Viconia, greeted her enthusiastically. "A loose sheet of paper that looks like a formula, a few letters, and some kind of handle."

"Make copies of that formula. I want it distributed to all of Khalid and Jaheira's contacts as soon as possible."

"You're thinking there could be a counteragent?" Jaheira asked.

"Maybe. Or at the least it'll be on hand if someone ever tries to pull this in the future," Lysara answered. Moving over next to the half-orc, she squatted down, opposite Viconia, who was just watching him bleed. "There's another way out of here, isn't there?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Is it trapped?"

He shook his head.

"Is it guarded?"

"It was… I pulled all my kobolds out and put them to work harrying the miners when word came down that a Knight of the Heart made it through. The rest are all out burning and pillaging for some sort of religious frenzy."

"I found this one chained up in the back," Minsc said as he pushed a dark-haired elf with blue skin into the room from a back area Lysara hadn't even noticed. "What should we do with him?"

"Thank you for freeing me from that creature," the moon elf said in a depressed-sounding monotone. "You're going to doom me now, aren't you?"

"Free? You were some sort of slave?" Lysara asked.

"Oh yes. I was taken from one of the earliest caravan raids," the man said. "My name is Xan."

Frowning, Lysara turned once again to the half-orc. "So there were survivors from the bandit raids… and your boss has the bandits working for him as well, feeding him pure iron and a free workforce from the caravans they hit. Is that right? The prisoners from the bandit raids: where are they taken?"

"No survivors," he answered. "Just slaves. All I know about them is that they were put to work."

"You didn't hear a mention of what or where?" Jaheira put in before Lysara could quite start talking.

"Cloak Mine. I wasn't even supposed to hear that, so I don't know what they meant by that."

"I think he's lying," Viconia put in, smiling wickedly down at the creature. He shuffled away by kicking his feet. "Should I convince him to tell the truth, _avvil_?"

"Oh I know he is. He was the one who got it out of Yeslick," Xan told them nonchalantly.

"Who?" Lysara inquired.

"Yeslick. He was a dwarf priest of… Clangeddin I think. Dwarf gods all have same-sounding names to my ear. He was on the same caravan as me, so he got brought in at the same time. He accidentally told them about an iron mine in Cloakwood. But it's suicide to go there. It was an abandoned dwarf clan hold to begin with, and the Throne has it more heavily manned and fortified than a castle."

"So… they're choking off iron coming in, poisoning iron locally mined, and mining pure iron themselves with slave labor," Lysara said, frowning as she thought about it.

"Who is 'they'?" Jaheira asked.

"The Iron Throne. The man who killed father appears to be the one behind this plot," she replied distractedly.

"What?" Khalid, Imoen, and Jaheira all demanded simultaneously.

Lysara shrugged. "That's what the half-orc told me. Give me a minute to think."

"Not to be intrusive," Xan said after a moment, "but has anyone seen my Moonblade? It would look like an ordinary handle unless it's turned on."

"This it?" Imoen asked, picking something up out of the drawer.

"Oh yes. Please may I have it back?"

"In a little while," Lysara said. "I need to think some things through first."

What was the purpose? Why create this iron shortage only to stockpile it… the answer occurred to her in a flash. There was only one thing a trading company as large as the Iron Throne appeared to be wanted: money. If the only source of reliable iron around was one company, then if hostilities broke out between the iron-starved country it was based in and its neighbor broke out – in this case, Amn – then they'd be able to charge exorbitant prices for weapons and armor that wouldn't break when some kid decided to use them as a set of drums. But how did that murderer Koveras and his apparent obsession with her fit into the equation? Was her blood just a bonus to him? There was something missing. There was something she wasn't seeing.

"Jaheira… I've heard some rumors that tensions are running high between the Grand Dukes and the Council of Six," Lysara prompted the druid.

"Indeed. The Dukes are blaming Amn for the iron shortage as a prelude to invasion, and the Council doesn't appreciate it… foundless as we now know it to be. Why?"

Lysara explained her reasoning, as well as relaying the information she'd extracted from the half-orc. The druid looked impressed, but grave. Everyone else just looked grave. "Yes… I agree with you, at least with the information we have now. You… Xan, was it? Do you think that you could lead us to the mine in Cloakwood?"

"Oh no, even if I knew where it was beyond 'somewhere in Cloakwood,' I wouldn't go there," he replied. "Like I said, it's suicide."

"There're people in there who need help," Lysara said, seeing why the druid wanted to go there.

"It was their own weakness which led to them being there," Viconia put in. "If they are too weak to break their chains then they deserve to remain in them."

"Quiet you foul little…" Jaheira began.

"Enough," Lysara cut in. "Viconia, that's… sometimes, no matter how powerful you are, you need a helping hand. Did you deserve to be put in those chains if we hadn't come along? Assuming, of course that they even took you alive."

The drow shrugged. "I was taken as a pleasure slave when I first reached the surface," she told them apathetically. "I broke my chains once, I could do so again."

Lysara blinked. She hadn't even guessed at that. "I think we've tarried here long enough," she said at length, feeling a swell of pity for the drow. "Let's see this 'back door' that the foreman doesn't even know exists."


	13. Leadership

"I'll go figure out where we are," Jaheira volunteered as they emerged from the quite kobold-less back door. It was in the shadow of a large hill; located more or less in the middle of a group of more hills, though lower. Water flowed into the opening they emerged from, fed from a small stream that made its way in from the southeast, but the land in sight was otherwise completely empty. "With luck we're no more than few hours' walk from the main entrance."

Lysara had been underground for perhaps half a day, if that. But the moon and the stars, partly hidden though they were behind rain-heavy clouds, seemed the brightest, most beautiful lights that she'd ever seen. The fresh, clean air was the sweetest taste she could imagine. She smiled at the sheer joy of being outside in the open air; and promptly dropped to her knees and sang. It didn't last long, but she was as pleased with the sound as with the looks of startlement that the drow and the two Rashemi gave her.

"Interesting," Viconia commented on the song with that speculative look in her eye.

"It's a surface elf thing," Imoen put in.

The drow snorted. "I likely know more of it then you do," she said to the young mage. At least she sounded more amused than hostile.

"So Dynaheir, what is it that brings a Rashemi witch so far to the north?" Lysara asked as a means of changing the topic. She didn't particularly like her ignorance over her own people, let alone discussing it with others.

"Does it matter?" the Rashemi woman asked in response. "I have a task to preform and I doubt that it concerns you, young one."

"I would know those who wish to travel with me," Lysara insisted.

The Rashemi woman sighed even as the berserker looked at Lysara as if he was considering squashing her. A gesture from the witch settled him down. "Very well," she acceded. "My task… This I and all my order know for fact: During the Time of Troubles, many of the gods, if not all of them, were cast down and forced to walk the prime material as near-mortal shells of their former selves."

The witch likely saw something in Lysara's face because she settled down to look at her more intently before she continued. "Three gods in particular were of interest, as they failed to return to the pantheon when those times ended. Your age, unless I miss my guess, would put you as having been born during or very shortly after those events, no?"

Lysara shrugged. "I honestly can't say I remember much from back then," she dodged. Khalid obviously wasn't used to guarding his facial expressions, because the answer was written all over it.

"So, about those spells we were talkin' about earlier…" Imoen tried to come to the rescue.

"I have been asked a question, and would finish the answer before being diverted," Dynaheir cut in softly, but as firmly as steel. "There are prophecies aplenty, both by Alaundo and… others, though many scholars put stock in his words above anyone else. All of them agree that the coming of the children left behind by the Lord of Murder will cause strife, and suffering; though some believe that these are warnings of one or two in particular emerging above the rest. I have been sent by my order to discover the truth of that matter." She folded her hands in front of herself, rubbing her left thumb with her right. "That is my task. So, friend… why is it that you are looking into this… plot again?"

Lysara sighed and debated for a moment just how much to tell this woman. Certainly not the truth of her heritage… she hadn't earned that yet. Rubbing her forehead, she sat down and glanced at the prisoner. "I was dragged into it, though I likely would have gotten involved anyway, if only to help the innocent," she told Dynaheir before changing the direction of the conversation. "But I think I might know where one of these… children you speak of is. Or at least, I'm starting to get the vaguest shape of who he is."

"Then… they are real," the Rashemi woman concluded gravely. "Gods and spirits protect us all. Who is this Child?"

"The man who killed my father," Lysara answered, and the other woman blinked. Lysara hoped that the statement was startling enough that she wouldn't inquire too deeply into Lysara's parentage. She'd certainly meant it to misdirect her. "I've had the sneaking suspicion for some time, ever since the… existence of such people was made plain to me. Now I'm almost certain."

That got a worried glance from Khalid, and an agreeing nod out of Imoen even as she grimaced, but if the witch paid them even as much attention as Lysara was, it would have been a surprise. She leaned forward, intent on the elf in front of her. "His name?"

"Koveras," Lysara answered. "Though I'm increasingly sure that's an alias. I have two solid leads on finding out who he really is though…"

"Is he… tall? Taller than Minsc and even brawnier? Does he have hateful black eyes and no hair?" Dynaheir asked.

"Yes…" Lysara whispered. "You have met him?"

"Not directly. I happened a glance at him some time between two and three months ago. I know not what his business was, though. Edwin appeared and I was forced to withdraw before I could learn more of him. I suspected that he was one on sight though. His helmet, under his arm at the time, was a copy of one that I saw during the Troubles, worn by a Deathstalker, and his eyes were those of concentrated death."

"You, whatever-your-name-is… What do you know about Bhaal?" Lysara asked their unhappy captive.

"I don't know anything about a temple!" he protested.

Lysara looked at Imoen for a moment and shared a raised eyebrow as the younger girl looked back. "I didn't say anything about a temple," Lysara told him, ignoring the obvious question. Likely he wanted her to ask it. "What do you know about Bhaal? Is 'Vok' one of his kids?"

"Bhaal had a lot of kids," the half-orc replied.

"Viconia, would you mind convincing him to answer me?" Lysara asked the drow.

"It would be my pleasure," the drow replied with a wicked smile at the brute.

"Okay! Okay! I don't know if he was one of them or not!" he squealed before Viconia could do more than reach for him. "Yeah his armor was made by an old priest of Bhaal, one of the last… but that's all I know!"

"And the temple?" Viconia asked.

"There's… two of them in the region. Old temples to Bhaal. One was taken by an earthquake recently and Vok almost took my head off when the news came to him while he was inspecting my setup. The other one's somewhere near Baldur's Gate, but I don't know exactly where it is. All I do know is that Vok and Tomoko talk about it a lot when they think no one's listening."

Lysara was growing increasingly certain that 'Vok' or 'Koveras' or whatever his name really was… that he was her brother. It was a profound and disturbing realization, knowing that your own kin wanted you dead simply because you existed, and was reveling in the thought of being the one to do it. Human or not, she thought that 'Vok' would have fit in very well with Viconia's culture. Lysara certainly hadn't missed the fact that Viconia had asked the obvious question. They, both the drow and the half-orc, wanted her to go into that temple for some reason. But what was it?

Was it that 'Vok' had chosen that place to murder her?

"Are you sure you don't have another name for 'Vok'?" Viconia asked, almost sweetly as she caressed the trembling half-orc's face. "One you're not supposed to know? Perhaps Tomoko cried it out in the throes of passion and you overheard?"

The large brute shook his head frantically, breathing hard as he tried to get away from the drow. "He… he doesn't take her when he's anywhere near me… he just told me she's his as a warnin'!" he protested.

"That's enough, Viconia. Let him alone for now," Lysara told her.

The drow actually pouted at her, but withdrew nonetheless, staring at her with a certainty of understanding in her eye that Lysara couldn't begin to even try to deny. She knew now, assuming she hadn't all along. Jaheira returned just then, even as the first drop of rain plopped down.

"I know where we are now, and can guide us back," the druid told them. "We will return to the mines and-"

"There's no need for that, unless it's on our way already," Lysara cut across the druid, drawing an angry glare. "I'm sure that Edwin, Montaron and Xzar made off with our mounts after reporting our tragic demise to the foreman. We'll make straight for Nashkel. Ghastkill can send a messenger to bring the man up to speed, and I'd very much prefer to catch up to those three before they have a chance to bolt. It wouldn't surprise me if one or both of the magi were planning to sit there and wait for orders on how to proceed, though if they dug up a lead that we didn't they could already be gone. How long they will linger is an open question."

Jaheira looked ready to spit nails, but just nodded once, curtly, when no one else disagreed with Lysara's reasoning. "And if that isn't the case?" she asked. "It would be most inconvenient to have to backtrack to the mines before we head out."

"A fair point," Lysara conceded, already having foreseen it. "I think Khalid would be most suited to sidetracking to check, don't you?" Lysara deliberately picked the same person that Jaheira would have 'volunteered' to go, though she herself would have sent Jaheira. Eventually the druid would stop trying to give her orders as if she thought of Lysara as her daughter. She appreciated that it had been her father's will that Khalid and Jaheira become surrogate parents to her if he should die; but that had been when she was little. She was grown now, and it was long past time that they stopped acting like she was four.

"Yes… I'm sure he is," Jaheira replied slowly.

"Well then, let's get going. Jaheira, take point."

The others started filing away in the direction the druid indicated, but the drow grabbed Lysara by the bicep as she turned to leave. "Are you?" she asked in a tone so low even Lysara had trouble picking up on it.

"Am I what?" Lysara asked.

"Do not play the fool with me, _avvil_. You know very well what I refer to," the drow pressed.

Lysara met the woman's eyes, and saw again the cold certainty that was there already. There was no point denying it, and lying would likely undo the very small progress she'd made with her. Being honest was key. "Yes," she admitted simply. The drow nodded and released her arm, a thoroughly satisfied smile on her lips. Lysara shuddered to see it, and couldn't help but wonder what she was up to now.

"Umm… what about me?" Xan asked.

"You're welcome to join us if you'd like," Lysara said, and Jaheira groaned.

"Oh no, I have no intention of doing that," Xan replied. "It's much too likely that you'll be beset by a horde of sword spiders, or invoke some evil god's wrath somehow and be smitten down, or fall down into a red dragon's lair, or get kidnapped by some wickedly evil and insanely powerful wizard, or drown or die in some sundry and horrific fashion. If you'll give me my Moonblade back then I'll be on my way."

"Of course," Lysara said, gesturing to Imoen. "Though I should think it likely that if you separate from us before we reach Nashkel; that some wild creature will have you for dinner."

"Oh… you raise a good point," the moon elf replied, looking thoughtful as he carefully took the hilt from Imoen. "Still, wild animals I can handle. I'd rather not be lumped in with you in your powerful adversaries' eyes. They're rather focused on you, and not likely to trouble with one escaped prisoner. Good day… or night, rather. I'll just conjure myself up some shelter and wait for dawn."

"Is there a reason that you invite practically everyone who crosses our path to join our group?" Jaheira asked testily as they left the moon elf behind. "It's almost as if you're thinking of starting your own adventuring company."

"I am," Lysara stated simply. "I haven't quite thought of a name yet…"

"You're _not_ serious," the druid insisted as the drow bit her own knuckle to stifle laughter.

"Actually I am. Koveras is going to keep coming after me, as you said. That much is certain," Lysara explained. "If I'm moving around, constantly running, he'll eventually either run me down at a time and place of his choosing or I'll run headfirst into his paid assassins. But if he knows exactly where I am, then he'll come after me in person, unless I completely misread him."

"And you think that it's going to be as easy as simply amassing followers?"

"No, no. I anticipate supply issues, no one hiring us at first, which would limit numbers because hey, I'm not exactly a rich woman. And then we need a place to call headquarters…"

"And enemy agents slipping into your ranks?" the druid prompted with a glance at the drow.

Lysara smiled, but now wasn't the time to tip her hand about Viconia, and her plans for the woman, at least not while that woman was in earshot. "Jaheira, I thought I made it plain. Let me restate it more simply. If you give me proof, I'll listen to you about her. Otherwise, let the matter rest." She made a hand gesture for 'later' in common sign language where the drow wouldn't see it. The druid saw and nodded, but put on a sullen look nonetheless.

"What of you, Imoen? Can you convince your dear friend to see reason?" Jaheira pressed.

"Oh, Lys is Lys. I'd have better luck trying to build a flying city by myself than changing her mind when she's got that look on her face." the young mage replied before drawing Dynaheir off to the side, Minsc shadowing them. "Now, about those spells…"

"Now? Our books will be soaked if we draw them forth in this weather," the witch protested.

"Nah. It's shop talk time. Besides, as comprehensive as my book is about the Art, it leaves me with a lot more questions than answers."

"There are always more questions than answers," Dynaheir answered with a smile. "Mystra is the keeper of the Weave, and she _is_ called the Lady of Mysteries…"

The druid sighed and pointed to the north. "Khalid, I believe our new leader has 'suggested' that you go fetch the horses," she told her husband sulkily.

"Well, it isn't as if you wouldn't have the same-" Khalid began.

"Don't tell me what I would and would not have done, Khalid!" Jaheira snapped. "Just go get the damned horses. If they're there, you'll catch up to us faster. If not, you'll need to move quickly to reach town at the same time as we do. And Lysara… we will discuss this in private."

She was getting tired of the druid telling her that, but saw no harm in conceding that point to her. She just nodded as they walked. "There are a few things I wish to discuss privately with you as well, my friend," she told the druid pointedly, turning the tables back in her favor.

From the look on her face, the druid had not missed the barely-hidden message that her word choice contained.

[-]

Khalid came with the dawn, just as horseless as Lysara had predicted, and the storm broke, or at least paused, a few minutes prior to his arrival; though the sky promised more to come. At least the dawn was visible, back the way they'd come and slightly to the right. "Well, t-they're gone," he informed them all. "Even y-yours," he added to Minsc and Dynaheir. "All the t-tracks were l-leading w-west by northwest, towards the town, though n-no one saw t-them m-making off with them."

"I suppose it's too much to ask for that they turned on each other after a few hundred yards and that at least one of them is out of our hair," Lysara commented.

"Indeed. I f-followed the t-trail for a little ways, but saw no sign of a c-conflict," Khalid confirmed.

Lysara privately thought she was either going to get a swelled – or cracked - head unless she was proven wrong about _something_ soon. She understood that she was far from infallible, but swollen heads always meant hurt pride or worse later if they weren't tended to. They broke briefly, and Lysara cast a spell to alleviate some of the humans' fatigue while they ate. She didn't take all of it. She knew – she didn't know how she knew, she just did – that taking it all would lead to more harm then good.

"You truly do seem to be coming into your own," Jaheira commented, keeping her voice low the moment that she had successfully drawn the elf aside during that short break. "The way that Gorion always wrote about you made it seem as if you were… a helpless child who needed to be constantly looked after. I admit our first meeting did little to dissuade me of that view."

"He taught me well," Lysara replied, ignoring the druid's comment about their meeting. "I'm not arrogant enough to say I don't need anyone's help, because I do, and likely lots of it. But I don't need… that kind of attention anymore." She smiled ruefully and touched the older woman's shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, I probably would've been the clingy, helpless child you were expecting had we met as little as a year ago. I admit, and freely, that I might not be ready for a lot of things in the realms just yet; but I'm ready to give them the best I can."

Jaheira pursed her lips, looking sad for a moment. "About Viconia… please tell me you do not trust her."

"She's already told me that she's going to betray me. And I think I already have a reasonable guess on how, and perhaps a rough idea on just when."

"Then why do you keep her at your side?"

"You would prefer if I put her out only to find her at my back later?" Lysara reasoned. "Besides, if I'm even half right, she won't _want_ to betray me when the time comes."

Jaheira just stared at her a moment.

"What?" Lysara asked.

"I'm just trying to figure out how that helpless little greenhorn whelp of a girl I first met is suddenly two steps ahead of me and staying there," Jaheira told her. "Ever since the day of the caravan attack, I keep finding myself deferring to you, even when you aren't deliberately giving the same orders I would simply so I _have_ to concede. I do not much care for deferring to others."

Lysara shrugged. "I'm just Lys," she replied with a grin that the other woman reluctantly returned. "I didn't mean to humiliate you, and if that's what I've achieved, I'm sorry."

Jaheira shook her head. "My own fool pride made it necessary for you to do so before I could see that you aren't the child I thought you were, at least, not wholly. Make no mistake, you do still have some growing up left to do, but less than I had thought."

"I guess I'll just take that as a 'Jaheira' sort of compliment," Lysara told her. "Come, we've a red wizard and a pair of Zhents to catch up with if we don't want to be buying new horses _and_ supplies. Besides, I want Ibblith back."

"You were serious about naming your horse _that_?"

"What? It fits. After all, she is _not drow_," Lysara quipped back with another grin.

Jaheira just rubbed her temples as if she had a headache, but let her take the lead again, by exactly two steps. _Some people just don't appreciate good humor_, Lysara thought to herself with a wry smirk.

They'd just returned to the group when Lysara sighted a lone figure moving towards their makeshift campsite, visible as much by daylight as by lightning flashes from the approaching storm. It was a small woman, about the same size as Lysara herself, and human, with short brown hair and almost too-round brown eyes and a matching face. Her features looked to be Kura-Turan, though the rest of her body was completely covered, from her spotless white boots upwards. She wore no armor that Lysara could see, other than a pair of bracers. A well-made grey travelling cloak covered everything else. She stopped a dozen paces off, smirking at Lysara as if the others didn't exist, and put her left hand on her hip, which drew her cloak away from the weapon on her belt in the process.

It was a katana.


End file.
